


Complications of Glamour

by JohnAmendAll



Series: Fabulous Investigations [5]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hearing rumours of feminist protests at an upcoming beauty pageant, Isobel persuades Zoë to take part. But they soon have more to worry about than activists and publicity stunts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sussex, By The Sea

"Anything in the offing?" Zoë asked. She and Isobel were huddling together on the sofa, with a quilt covering them both; the only light, not to mention heat, in the room was coming from a single candle. Outside, the world was blanketed in silence and darkness, the product of the mining unions' latest attempt to bring a hated government to heel. 

"I thought we might go down to Brinshore." 

"Where's that?" 

"Coastal resort. In Sussex." 

"Sounds nice. We could do with a day or two by the seaside. Though it won't be much fun if the weather's like this and the electricity's still off." 

"It'll be more fun than here." 

A note of suspicion entered Zoë's voice. "Why? What's going on?" 

"They're having a beauty pageant. And a little bird tells me there might be a feminist protest or two. I think we ought to do our bit for the sisterhood, and with any luck we'll get a few snaps we can sell to the papers while we're at it." 

"But if you're taking part in the protest, you can't be photographing it, can you? Or is that why you've been training me how to use the big camera?" 

Isobel sighed. "The problem is, you're all right technically but you're hopeless at composing a shot. I think it'll have to be me taking the pictures and you in the protest. Or you could enter the pageant, if you'd rather." 

"How would it help the cause of feminism if I joined the pageant?" 

"You'd sabotage it from the inside, obviously." 

"So I'd be the one who gets humiliated in public, or arrested for causing trouble..." 

"Or both," Isobel said cheerfully. 

"Thanks a lot. And you'd be the one who takes the award-winning pictures of it all?" 

"Someone's got to, haven't they?" 

"Heads you win, tails I lose. All right, then. What's the worst that can happen?" 

Isobel shrugged. "Ask me once it's happened." 

⁂

Thanks to the expertise in automotive engineering that was making British cars a byword throughout the world, Isobel's Mini was languishing in a garage awaiting delivery of a replacement distributor. Thus, they were forced to make their way to the Sussex coast by train, in the company of numerous other holidaymakers and their luggage. When a young woman scrambled aboard at Valley Fields and took the seat opposite them, neither Zoë nor Isobel paid her much attention. 

"'Scuse me," she said, some minutes after the train had juddered back into motion. "Have we met? Only I'm sure..." 

"I think we have," Zoë said. She set down her copy of _New Scientist_ and put her fingers to her temples. "It was on a shoot for margarine, wasn't it? That's right. We were all dressed as vegetables — I've no idea why. You were a carrot, I think. Your name's Babs... I don't think surnames were mentioned." 

The other girl's face lit up. "I can't believe you remembered all that. You're Chloë, aren't you?" 

Zoë shook her head. "Zoë, Zoë Heriot. This is my partner Isobel Watkins. Isobel, this is Babs...?" 

"Tucker." She held out a hand. 

"Nice to meet you," Isobel said. "Maybe we've bumped into each other before, but I've got a mind like a sieve. Goodness knows where I'd be without Zoë to run the business." 

Babs looked from one to the other, seemingly trying to determine their relationship. "You're in business together?" 

"That's right. A photographic studio." 

"Oh, of course. You going down to Brinshore?" 

"Yes. Are you?" 

"Not half. Booked for this beauty contest thing. Lucky for me I spotted it — the only other gig I had lined up was mud wrestling at Hull again." She laughed at the expressions on her fellow-travellers' faces. "I won't get anywhere, you just see. These things are always rigged." 

"Really?" Zoë asked. 

"Really. Last one I went to was at Seawood. You could tell what was going to happen there the moment they read out the names. No-one's going to look at Babs Tucker when there's Sylvia Pooley in the lineup, are they?" 

"I don't recognise the name. Should I?" 

Babs leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. "If you went to Seawood you'd know it. Her uncle owns half the town." 

"You mean he'd pull strings to have her win?" Isobel asked. 

"'Course he would. But in the end he didn't get a chance." 

"Why, what happened?" 

"Bunch of crazy dykes broke in, that's what. Throwing flour and paint and I don't know what else. Shouting the odds about women's rights." Babs snorted. "Rights! Do me a favour. Don't I have a right not to get paint thrown at me?" 

"I suppose they thought—" Zoë began. 

"I don't. Bunch of jealous old maids who can't get a bloke, so they try and take it out on girls like me. If that's feminism they can keep it." 

"That's nothing like—" 

Isobel hastily broke in. "Do you think there might be something like that at Brinshore?" 

"Dunno." Babs shrugged. "There's a lot of it about. What do they want to do, put me out of a job? Thought they wanted more women in work." 

Maintaining a firm grip on Zoë's hand in the hope that that would keep her quiet, Isobel made to change the topic of conversation. 

"Do you know anything about the setup at Brinshore?" she asked. "I mean, who's running the show, and who's got the surname to avoid?" 

"David Clifton's the bloke I've dealt with." Babs extracted a typewritten letter from her handbag. "No letters after his name, so he can't be anything much. Probably just the one who does all the work and some lazy bigwig takes the credit. Why, you thinking of going in for it?" 

"Zoë was thinking about it. I'm just here to take the pictures." 

Babs gave Zoë an appraising look. "Yeah, if I was you I'd go for it. What's the worst that could happen?" 

"She wins and you come second?" Isobel suggested. 

"That'd be just my luck, wouldn't it?" Babs said, with a laugh. 

⁂

"You'd better have this room," Isobel said. "The light's better." 

"What's that got to do with it?" Zoë asked. There was, in truth, little to choose between their two rooms — inexpensive single bedrooms on the second floor of a boarding house, tucked away in a back street. 

"We'll need it to get your makeup right for the pageant." Isobel crossed to the window and pulled the curtains back. "Oh, and you get a nice view of the estuary, too." 

Zoë joined her at the window. "It looks more like a swamp to me." 

"I suppose the tide's out." 

"I wonder if smugglers come up the river at night?" Zoë mused. "This might be quite a good place to watch them." 

"Smugglers?" Isobel gave Zoë a bewildered look. "Why should there be smugglers?" 

"That's what they do, isn't it? Bring barrels of French brandy ashore after dark. I'm sure that was in one of my Introduction To History lessons." 

"That was hundreds of years ago! I know we all look out-of-date to you, but we're not _that_ far back in the past." 

Zoë frowned. "We might as well be. Did you see the notice downstairs? Double rooms only available to married couples. Well, that's us told, isn't it?" 

"You know what we agreed." Isobel put a hand round her shoulders. "While we're here, we're strictly professional. I don't think the landlady would appreciate anything... advanced." 

"She's not the only one." 

"Do you mean...?" 

"That Babs." Zoë's two syllables carried enough contempt to implode a medium-sized comet. "The way she talked about feminism. She seems to think we're all evil man-hating lesbians with hairy legs who go about attacking people on a whim." 

Isobel squeezed her shoulder. "Don't let her get to you. You know she's completely wrong. I mean, your legs aren't hairy at all." 

"Isobel!" Zoë glared at her, then realised she was being sent up. "All right. She can't help being an ignorant primitive. I just wanted to shake some sense into her." 

"I think you'd get better results if you try consciousness-raising. We may be primitives, but ignorance is curable." 

"Yes, you responded quite well to treatment." Zoë slid her hand around Isobel's waist. "Didn't you?" 

"Behave," Isobel said. "Strictly professional, remember? No hanky panky while we're here." 

Zoë chuckled. "No. Quite apart from the landlady and everyone else here being so homophobic, I don't want to have to pay for the damage if we broke that bed. It doesn't look like it would stand up to much."


	2. Pergite, Puellae

As instructed, the participants and would-be participants in the beauty pageant assembled the following morning in the Seaview Hotel. A handwritten notice directed Zoë and Isobel to a function room at the rear of the building, half-full of people who seemed to be milling about with no particular purpose in mind. 

"Any idea who we should speak to?" Zoë said. 

"Nope. We'll have to ask someone." Isobel tapped the shoulder of the nearest person, a tired-looking man in a worn three-piece suit. "Excuse me, do you know who's in charge here?" 

He shook his head. "No idea, love." 

"This could take some time," Zoë said, after the next two strangers Isobel had approached had proved no more knowledgeable. 

"Well, we'll just have to keep asking." Isobel looked this way and that. "I can't see the Babs girl anywhere. Can you?" 

Zoë looked up at her. "What do you think? All I get to see from down here is people's shoulders. I could really do with a periscope." 

"Can I help you?" a woman asked. She was in her late twenties by the look of her, wearing clothes that, in Isobel's opinion, were of good quality but some years behind the current fashion. 

"Yes," Zoë said. "I'd like to enter the pageant, if that's possible." 

"Come with me and we'll see what can be done." Her curly blonde hair fell forward across her face; she pushed it away with a vague sound of annoyance. "I'm Cathy Clifton, by the way: my husband's organising everything." She smiled deprecatingly. "At least, he's doing his best to. And you?" 

Isobel, to whom the last couple of words had been directed, shrugged. "I'm a photographer. I expect you've already got one booked?" 

"Yes, a local man. Sorry." 

"OK, I'll just hang around here if that's all right. See you later, Zoë." 

Zoë found herself led through the crowd to where a worried-looking man was sitting behind a paper-strewn table. 

"David?" Zoë's guide said. "Got another one for you." 

"Ah." The man looked up at her. "Well, places are limited, and I'm not sure..." 

"You can make room for a little 'un, can't you?" a man's voice asked. Zoë looked round, to see that she'd attracted the attention of a middle-aged man of prosperous appearance. "She's just the sort of girl we need." He patted Zoë's bottom by way of emphasis. 

The man behind the desk didn't look any happier. "Of course, Alderman, if you say so." He delved among his papers and came up with a creased form. "I'll just take a few details. Name?" 

"Zoë Heriot. That's one R and one T," Zoë added, watching him fill in the details. 

"Fine. Date of birth?" 

Since it obviously wouldn't have done to give a date in the next century, Zoë's answer was entirely fictitious. The remaining questions were straightforward, capable of being answered with obvious truth or anodyne invention. 

"Sign here, please. Thank you. We'll be announcing the programme in a few moments." Before Zoë could ask anything else, he'd shuffled her form back into his heap of papers and had turned to another member of the throng. "Yes, Bill, what is it?" 

Zoë made her way back through the crowd to where Isobel was waiting. 

"I got in all right," she said. "I think Babs was right about Mr Clifton not being in charge. He doesn't seem to have much of a clue about anything." 

"So who is running things?" 

"Some Alderman — I don't know his name. He touched me inappropriately." 

Isobel shrugged. "Occupational hazard. I hope you didn't throw him across the room." 

"It was an effort not to. But I thought I'd better not blow my cover just yet." 

"Um. Excuse me?" Mr Clifton called. He had climbed onto a chair at one end of the room. "Can we have some quiet please?" This request not having the desired effect, he raised his voice. "Can you be QUIET, please? Um, thank you. Could we have the lovely contestants up at the front?" 

Zoë made her way to that end of the room, ignoring various whispered innuendos about the lovely contestants and their fronts, and joined a growing group of smartly-dressed young women. She spotted Babs emerging from the crowd, and gave her a little wave. 

"Now. Um." Mr Clifton seemed to be counting the contestants and checking against a piece of paper on his clipboard. "Welcome to Brinshore, girls, and thank you all for coming. Some of you may not have met Alderman Rowlandson, who's been working hard to arrange sponsorship for this event." 

Alderman Rowlandson, all too familiar to Zoë, clambered wheezily up onto another chair and favoured the contestants with what might have been intended as a welcoming smile. In practice it was more of a leer. 

"Now, we've got several events lined up," Mr Clifton went on, "starting with the parade this afternoon. Meet at two, at the yard at the north end of Rutland Gardens — ah, there should be some maps somewhere..." 

Mrs Clifton emerged from the crowd with a folder tucked under her arm, and handed out purple-inked sheets of foolscap to the contestants. Zoë gave hers a hard look, fixing the location of the yard in her mind. 

One of the other girls raised her hand. "Excuse me? This only says how we get to the yard. Where do we go from there?" 

"Ah, that's all a bit hush-hush at the moment. You'll be wearing bikinis: speak to Cathy if you haven't got one, and she can fix you up." He waited for the audience's wolf-whistles to die down. "Tomorrow we'll get onto the contest proper. Weather permitting, we'll start with the swimwear round at the Lido. Girls, you'll need to be there at nine. Judging starts at ten. If it's wet, it'll take place in the Pier Pavilion. 

"After that..." He shuffled through his papers. "We'll have the eveningwear round at half past seven — that'll definitely be in the Pier Pavilion. It'll be followed by dinner for the contestants, the judges, and selected invited guests. 

"The sportswear round's yet to be confirmed, but it'll most likely be at the Recreation Ground. Again, if it's raining you'll be given an alternative closer to the time. That'll be combined with the final results and presentation of the trophies. 

"Good luck, see you this afternoon, and may the best girl win." 

⁂

The 'parade', it quickly became apparent, involved the young women, twelve in all, riding through the streets standing in the back of an open-topped lorry. The rear of the lorry was decked with ratty-looking bunting, and large banners reading FRED ROWLANDSON: BUILDING A BETTER BRINSHORE hung from each side. Within the lorry, the bulk of the space was taken up by a wooden tower of rickety appearance, leaving two narrow gaps for the models to pose in skimpy bikinis. Though it was not actually raining, the air was sufficiently chilly and damp that, watching them climb aboard, Isobel decided that she did not envy them in the slightest. 

With the aid of a ladder lashed to the structure, Alderman Rowlandson ascended to the top of the tower. There was a squeal of electronic feedback from loudspeakers set just below his perch, then an amplified cough. 

"Can you all hear me?" his voice boomed out. 

Mr Clifton gave a cheerful thumbs-up. 

"Right. Off we go then. Smiles and waves, girls. Give 'em what they've come to see." 

The lorry rumbled forward, at a slow walking pace. Isobel, along with the other photographers, journalists, organisers and hangers-on, had no difficulty in keeping pace with it. 

The next half-hour passed reasonably uneventfully both for those on the lorry and those shadowing it on foot. Alderman Rowlandson spent the time holding forth through his amplifier, describing the policies with which he hoped to win the next council election. It seemed to Isobel that he did not have a great many policies, and was trying to make up for this by repetition. She wondered how Zoë was coping; with her memory, she got impatient when people told her things twice, let alone twelve or more times. 

Standing in the lorry beside Babs, Zoë waved and smiled mechanically, glancing with equal interest at the people and the architecture. There was hardly any of the concrete and glass that was so prevalent in her time; almost all the buildings were brick, and looked as if they could do with a good wash and a new coat of paint. Now and again they passed patches of waste land, which Zoë guessed were bomb damage from one of this century's wars. 

It was while they were passing a small parade of shops that the lorry suddenly lurched to a halt. Alderman Rowlandson broke off halfway through his latest explanation of why a vote for him was the only sensible choice. 

"What's happening?" he called down. 

"Puncture," one of the models near the front of the lorry called back. 

Still with her eyes on the crowd, Zoë felt a chill down her spine that was nothing to do with the weather. She gave the crowd another look. A group of women, who'd seemed a moment before to be nothing but shoppers, had turned to face the lorry, and were delving in capacious shopping bags. Not taking her eyes off them, Zoë gripped Babs's arm. 

"It's an ambush—" she began. 

Before she could complete her sentence, something flew through the air over her head and smashed against the tower, showering them both with flour. A volley of eggs followed; most missed, but some found their mark. Overhead, Alderman Rowlandson's calls for calm spluttered and went out. 

"Bloody lezzies!" Babs shouted, trying vainly to shake fragments of eggshell out of her hair. "I'm not putting up with it, d'you hear?" 

She clambered over the side of the truck and jumped down onto a fruit stall, sending oranges flying in all directions. 

"Don't do anything rash," Zoë began, but it was obvious that Babs wasn't in any mood to take advice. And if she stayed up here, Zoë had to admit — as something hit her shoulder with a splash — she was nothing more than a target. 

She vaulted over the side of the lorry and gave chase. 

  


At the first volley of missiles, Isobel had hastily clambered onto a pillar box, her camera at the ready. From this vantage point, she had a grandstand view of the scene. The immobilised lorry was now surrounded by protesters, bombarding it from all directions. Most of the models, screaming and dishevelled, were scrambling down from the back of the lorry, though Isobel didn't have the leisure to count them and check they were all there. In the crowd, more women were raising a banner reading EQUAL RIGHTS FOR EQUAL WORKERS. 

As Isobel took care to record every detail of the scene, not omitting a minor fracas among the vegetable stalls to one side, she spotted a woman making for the front of the lorry. The unknown woman ducked between the cab and the trailer; a moment later, the back of the lorry began to lift. It was a tipper truck, Isobel realised, and someone had just set it tipping. 

"You're not serious," she whispered, as the rickety tower perched on the tipper tilted further and further back, the Alderman now clinging to the top for dear life. Below it, models and demonstrators alike fled from the inevitable disaster. "That's going to—" 

The tower buckled and collapsed into the road, filling the air with the sound of splintering timber. Isobel snatched a few hasty shots, jumped down and tried to head for the scene of the disaster, but once among the crowd, found herself pushed randomly this way and that by the press of people. There were distant shouts, and the sounds of police whistles. 

"Hey!" Babs's voice called, somewhere nearby. "Over here! We got one!" 

Isobel headed in that direction, and emerged from the crowd into the remains of the fruit stall, its tables by now overturned. A skinny young woman wearing jeans and a jumper was vainly struggling between Babs and Zoë. All three bore copious smudges of flour, eggs, fruit, and whatever else had come to hand. 

"Big smiles, please," Isobel couldn't help saying, as she raised her camera.


	3. Temporarily Indisposed

Like most of Brinshore's public buildings, the magistrates' court looked about eighty years old and in need of a good deal of tender loving care. Sitting outside the building, sharing an ancient bench with Zoë, Isobel was fidgeting. 

"I don't know why you're so annoyed," Zoë said. "Isn't this what you wanted? I get attacked by feminist protesters, you photograph it all, and then you sell your pictures to the papers. It's all happened just like you said it would." 

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting things to get so... serious. Arrests and magistrates' courts and so on. I thought it would just be a demo." 

"Well, I don't think it can have done the cause of feminism much good. Peaceful protest is one thing, grievous bodily harm to a public official is another." 

"You said you nearly knocked him down when he groped you," Isobel pointed out. 

"That's different. Falling out of that truck could easily have killed him — I wouldn't do something like that. Hello, there's Babs." She waved at the shapely blonde figure emerging from the courthouse. 

"Hi," Babs said cheerfully, as she approached them. "Can you budge up a bit? Thanks." She pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "Smoke?" 

"I don't smoke," Zoë said. "You shouldn't, either. It's very bad for you." 

"Turn the record over, you sound like my mum." Babs held out the packet to Isobel, who shook her head. 

"Did the magistrate believe you?" Isobel asked, as Babs went through the ritual of lighting up. 

"Of course. Same as with you. Self-defence, and not a stain on my character... which is more than you can say for my cozzie. That ink's hell to get off." 

"And what about the girl we caught?" Zoë searched her memory. "Janet Povey." 

Babs shrugged. "Let off with a warning. He reckoned she'd been led astray." 

"Who by?" Isobel asked. 

"Some friend or other. She made out she didn't know most of the other people there. Couldn't say who it was who tipped old Rowlandson out of his truck — some bird she'd never seen before. Heard anything more about him, by the way?" 

"Only what's in the paper." Isobel produced the latest edition of the _Brinshore Mercury_ from her handbag. "He was taken to hospital and no-one's heard anything since." 

Babs seemed more interested in the front page. "Of all your pictures they had to use that one," she said, rolling her eyes. 

"'Models fight back,'" Isobel couldn't help saying. "It's a great action shot." 

"You're not the one all over eggs and flour. If my mum ever sees that she'll go spare. So, have you finished here now?" 

"Not by a long chalk. The police want to go through my photos to see if they can identify the other demonstrators — particularly the one who tipped the lorry up. So we'll need to hang around here until they've finished with me. What about you?" 

"If you're staying on, I'm staying too," Babs said fiercely. "I want to know who thinks they can chuck eggs at me and get away with it." 

"Funny, isn't it?" Zoë said. "When we started out, it was the Alderman who was objectifying us. We were just window dressing for his speech. And the demonstrators objectified us too, only as targets." 

Babs looked blankly at Isobel. "Did you get that? 'Cos I didn't." 

"It's just her way," Isobel said. "When she gets like that I smile and nod and pretend I've understood. See you around, I suppose." 

"Oh. Yeah. Nearly forgot. We need to go back to that hotel this afternoon. There's gonna be some sort of announcement. See you then." 

"See you," Isobel replied. 

⁂

The scene at the hotel was much as before, except that the population of journalists had greatly increased and Alderman Rowlandson was absent. This time, Mr Clifton was accompanied by the local police superintendent. 

"Ah, girls — that is, ladies and gentlemen," he began, once silence had eventually been achieved. "I think I should bring you up to date with the latest news from the hospital. I'm sorry to say that Alderman Rowlandson suffered a broken leg in his fall from the lorry. He's in hospital and sends you all his best wishes. 

"That obviously means we've had to make some changes to the programme for the next few days. We had to miss the Lido today, so that's been rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon. The eveningwear event this evening is going ahead; that'll be at the Pier Pavilion, followed by the dinner, as planned. 

"Fortunately we've been able to fill Alderman Rowlandson's place on the judging panel at short notice. You'll all have heard of Mick Connell, the voice of pop. He happened to be in the area and agreed straight away to help us out. 

"I'll now pass you over to Superintendent Gooch." 

He stepped back, letting the policeman take centre stage. 

"Thank you," the latter began, speaking as if he was delivering a statement in the witness box. "Our investigation into the outrage yesterday is still ongoing. We urge anybody with knowledge of the attack on Alderman Rowlandson and the young ladies to come forward to us. Any information we receive will be treated in the strictest confidence. 

"We shall also be bringing in additional constables from the county force to help protect the pageant from any further attempts to disrupt it." 

⁂

"Who is this Mick Connell, anyway?" Zoë asked, as she and Isobel walked to the pier that evening. "I've never heard of him." 

"He's a DJ," Isobel said. "He was really big when I was in school. Had his own chat show on TV." 

"Well, I don't recognise the name." 

"That's probably a good sign. Usually if you remember someone's name it's because they're our version of Jack the Ripper. Particularly celebrities." 

"I'm afraid that's about the only reason we would remember one of your celebrities. It certainly wouldn't be for their artistic taste." 

"The disadvantages of taking the long view," Isobel said. "After all, you hadn't heard of me before you met me. I'd have liked to think I'd be a historical figure." 

"Then you'd better start studying rocket science. I'll give you a hint or two and you could be the inventor of the ion thruster." 

"I'll pass on that, thanks." Isobel came to a halt at the entrance to the pier. "Enjoy your evening. I'm going to check out the clubs." 

"See you later, then," Zoë said. 

⁂

The eveningwear competition had come to a successful conclusion, without further disruption from militant protesters of any kind. The local police had been very obviously present, giving rise to a slight atmosphere of tension, but the models had all managed to perform their twirls and smiles to specification, and answer a few anodyne questions from the judging panel. They had now adjourned to the pavilion restaurant, where the contestants, under the watchful eye of Mrs Clifton, had enjoyed as much of a meal as they could bear to without risking their figures. 

"Did you mean what you said?" Babs asked Zoë. "When they asked us about our ambitions, I mean." 

"Of course I meant it. Why?" 

"Well, it's just most girls don't say they want to be the captain of a spaceship. They want to travel the world and help people, sort of thing." 

"Oh. Do you think I should have said that instead?" 

"Nah, they'll remember you at least. Maybe give you the consolation prize." She lowered her voice and glanced at a willowy redhead across the table. "Bet you Leila LeGrove's the one who wins." 

"She's very attractive, I suppose," Zoë said. 

"She is," Babs admitted grudgingly. "But that's not what I meant. She was all over old Rowlandson yesterday and now she's sniffing round those judges like—" 

Zoë gasped, and suddenly leaned forward. 

"Hey." Babs turned to her. "You've gone all pale. You feeling all right?" 

"I don't think so," Zoë said. She swayed, and for a moment seemed about to topple forward into her plate of Black Forest gateau. Instead, she pushed her chair back and staggered to her feet. "I need some fresh air. Urgently." 

Babs jumped up. "I'm coming with you." 

The two made for the open air at something not far short of a run, nearly knocking a waiter over in the process. Having made it to the railings at the edge of the pier, Zoë leaned over, alternating deep breaths with hiccups and retching noises. 

"What's the matter?" Babs asked, though she was getting a fairly good idea from the sounds Zoë's digestive system was making. 

"There was something in that dinner that didn't agree with me." Zoë clapped her hand over her mouth and swallowed hard. 

"Can't be. We all had the same." 

"Maybe I'm just not used to rich food." 

"Or perhaps you got a bad prawn in the prawn cocktail." Babs delved in her handbag for a cigarette. "Hang on, you don't think..." 

Zoë stood up, and promptly doubled over, to the accompaniment of a gurgling sound that made Babs feel queasy just to hear. "Don't go anywhere," she said. "I need to visit the Ladies'. Wait for me here." 

Clutching her stomach, she left at the best run she could manage. 

Babs lit her cigarette and leaned on the railing, looking out over the English Channel. Small lights, out on the water, gave the positions of cargo ships or fishing boats. 

It wasn't until some time after Babs had finished her cigarette and flicked the stub into the sea that Zoë reappeared. In the light of the pier lamps her face was gleaming with perspiration and looked unnaturally pale, but she was walking normally and her expression was reasonably calm. 

"Did you make it to the lavvy in time?" Babs asked. 

Zoë nodded. "Only just. And when I did get there... well, you don't want to hear the details, but it was pretty awful." She leaned on the railing beside Babs, looking out to sea. "I wonder what it was I ate?" 

"Yeah, I was thinking that. What if someone in the kitchen was in with the rug-munchers—" 

"If you mean those feminist protestors, please can you say so?" 

"Same difference. Anyway, suppose they put something in the food to make you sick?" 

Zoë considered the question. "Then we come back to why I'm the only one who was taken ill." 

"If it was just one person, maybe they couldn't get at everyone's food." 

"I suppose it's a workable theory, but you haven't got any proof." 

"Then let's go and get some." Babs folded her arms. "And how do you know you're the only one? Maybe when we go back in we'll find there's more." 

Zoë shook her head, and leaned on the rail. "Not now. I don't feel up to it. You go back in there and check everyone's all right, and tell Mrs Clifton what's going on." 

"OK," Babs said, and vanished into the pavilion, leaving Zoë where she was. She returned some minutes later, in the company of both Cliftons. 

"Zoë, isn't it?" Mrs Clifton asked, taking her by the arm. "We're going to take you home." 

"Thank you," Zoë said. "Has... has anyone else been ill?" 

Babs shook her head. "No-one," she said, sounding disappointed. "Not as much as a burp. It's just you." 

"I'd have thought that was enough," Zoë said, as she suffered herself to be led away.


	4. The Vanishing

"You're sure you're feeling better this morning?" Isobel asked. She was perched on Zoë's bed, which did not seem to be appreciating the treatment and was making its displeasure known by a series of plaintive creaks. Zoë herself was sitting in an ancient armchair, wearing a jumper over pyjamas. 

"Better than last night, anyway." Zoë sipped at the mug of Bovril that comprised her entire breakfast. "We'll have to see if I can keep this down." 

"It won't do your chances in the competition any good. You were as white as a sheet last night — and you still look washed-out now." 

"That's not the real reason why we're here. Or is it?" Zoë shook her head. "I can't think clearly. My head feels like it's full of cotton wool." She gave Isobel a faint smile. "Maybe this is what it's like to be you all the time." 

"Oh, very funny. I can see there's nothing wrong with your brain. Anyway, we'll see how you're feeling this afternoon." 

"Swimwear at the Lido," Zoë said. 

"Right. I don't want you to start doing it and then get the runs or throw up over the—" She broke off as Zoë went pale and swallowed hard. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." 

Zoë, still looking queasy, took another sip of Bovril. "I don't imagine you'd get any saleable photographs out of it, either." 

"Certainly not." 

"Anyway, we'll see how I'm feeling. I'm sure I saw something out of place last night, and I can't put my finger on it." 

"I never asked, did I? How did it go before you were taken ill?" 

"You mean the eveningwear round? Well, we all walked up and down and answered silly questions. Everyone was taking it so _seriously_." 

"Of course they were. Don't they have beauty contests in your time?" 

"Only re-enactments." 

"And aren't they the same?" 

Zoë shook her head. "Suppose you did fencing to keep fit, and suddenly you were sent back in time to the Wars of the Strawberries." 

"I hope you mean the Wars of the Roses." 

"They're all rosoideae, aren't they? Anyway, the point is, that's the difference. Between fencing for fun, or fighting for your life. All these girls are taking it utterly seriously." 

Isobel sighed. "They all want to be famous." 

"I see. This event occupies the niche later filled by reality television and the Pan-Bloc hunger tournaments. There's an old rhyme about that sort of thing. 'We'll ensare and exploit, and exhaust and embrace you / There'll always be thousands queued up to replace you.'" 

"I've never heard that before." 

"'Pretty soon you'll be a has-been at nineteen years of age / For a little bit more than minimum wage?' Well, it doesn't matter." 

"Must be after my time. We don't have a minimum wage, anyway." Isobel looked at her watch. "Will you be all right on your own? I need to go out." 

"I'll be fine. What are you up to?" 

Isobel slapped her own wrist. "I didn't tell you about that, either. Mind like a sieve. You remember I went through all my photos with the police, trying to find that woman who tipped up the lorry? We didn't get anywhere." 

"Didn't you get a good picture of her?" 

"She didn't really look my way. I think she was keeping her face hidden. She was wearing a headscarf, too. But I thought now I've got the pics developed, I should try and chat to that girl you did a citizen's arrest on. Janet something." 

"Povey." 

"That's her. Anyway, you're the dupe of the patriarchy who turned her in to the police, but I'm a freelance businesswoman making my own way in the world. So I'm obviously the right person to chat to her and see if there's anything she's been holding back on." 

"So that's why you aren't wearing any makeup. She's got to think you're one of the sisterhood." 

Isobel grinned. "Bra-burning and dungarees all the way." 

"And... is that my headband you're wearing?" 

"Needs must, sweetcheeks." Isobel jumped to her feet. "Got to dash." 

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," Zoë said, and risked another cautious sip of Bovril. 

⁂

Zoë's morning of convalescence was not fated to be a peaceful one. After Isobel's departure, she'd managed to find the energy to dress. While she was still trying to get the tangles out of her hair, there was a knock at the door, and the landlady admitted two people: an unknown man, and Mrs Clifton. Despite the reasonably early hour, it was clear from the uncontrollable state of the latter's ringlets that this was already proving a stressful day for her. 

"Miss Heriot," Mrs Clifton began. "I hope you're feeling better today." 

"Yes, thank you," Zoë said politely. "But I'm not sure if I'll make it to the Lido this afternoon. I'll have to see how I feel nearer the time." 

"Of course, if you find you aren't well enough, that's quite understandable." She took a deep breath. "But I'm afraid this isn't just a courtesy call. This is Inspector Davies, and he's got a few questions for you." 

"That's right, miss," the man said, his tone indicating reassurance. "Just a matter of routine. Now, Mrs Clifton here tells me you were taken ill last night. About half-past nine, would that be?" 

"Nine twenty-eight by the clock in the pavilion restaurant," Zoë said. 

"And you and another young lady went outside." 

"Yes, Babs Tucker. We went out onto the pier, but only for a minute or so. Then I spent a lot of time in the Ladies' trying to get rid of whatever bacterium I'd eaten. I take it you've spoken to Babs?" 

"Go on, please, miss." 

"I came back and Babs was still there. After a bit she went to get Mrs Clifton, and the Cliftons brought me here." 

"Which I can vouch for," the landlady added. "Brought you in at five to ten, they did. White as a sheet, she was, Inspector, and the sweat pouring off her, and the noises her poor tummy was making, you've never heard the like. Her friend — Miss Watkins, I mean — was sitting up with her till gone two." 

"Thank you, madam, that's very helpful," the Inspector said. "And thank you too, miss. I think that's all I need from you. Would it be possible to talk to your friend?" 

"Sorry," Zoë said. "She's gone out." She sat up in her chair slightly. "Now you've finished questioning me, are you going to tell me what's happened?" 

The Inspector shared a glance with Mrs Clifton, and nodded. 

"It's bad news, I'm afraid," the latter said. "Leila LeGrove has gone missing." 

⁂

Janet Povey's bedroom had, in Isobel's view, been redecorated within the last few years; everything about it looked new, but ever so slightly out of date. On the walls, posters of Che Guevara and John Lennon vied with each other for attention. This time Isobel had the only chair, sitting in front of the streamlined dressing table, while Janet was sharing the unmade bed with an assortment of gonks. 

"It all sounds very professional," Isobel was saying. 

"Oh, yes." Janet's initial wariness of the stranger had long since worn off. Before the magistrates, she'd been subdued and respectful, but a night's sleep had transformed her brief arrest into revolutionary near-martyrdom, and she was eager to share her mood with a kindred spirit. "We've got to prove our worth — and if we can't organise ourselves effectively, why should anybody take us seriously?" 

"So you're going to go on? After that business with the truck, I wouldn't blame you if you decided to keep a low profile for a bit." 

"That truck thing wasn't supposed to happen!" Janet said. "No-one ever mentioned it at any of the meetings. And I'm sure it wasn't any of us who did it." 

"You mean your group's been infiltrated?" 

Janet shook her head emphatically. "That's impossible. Ms Blue and Ms Grey would never allow it." 

"Are those code names?" Isobel asked, leaning forward eagerly. 

"Yes, they're our leaders. They know who we all are, you see, but we only know the women in our cell. So we wouldn't know if someone was an agent provocateur or just another comrade, but Ms Blue or Ms Grey would spot them at once and make sure we took the appropriate action." 

Isobel tried to get her head around this. "So she's not a member of your group, because if she was your leaders would have spotted her. But if she isn't, how did she know where and when you were going to do your ambush?" 

"She couldn't have known! It was all terribly secret. If Rowlandson had got so much as a hint of our plans he'd have changed his route, wouldn't he? And then where would we have been?" 

"Not under arrest," Isobel couldn't help saying. 

Janet shrugged. "That's a risk I'm prepared to take." 

"Good for you, sister." Isobel gave her an encouraging smile. "So you're going on with the campaign?" 

"I couldn't possibly tell you that," Janet said, but her triumphant expression made it pretty clear what the answer was. 

⁂

After Mrs Clifton and the Inspector had gone, Zoë had finally been able to finish her hair and makeup, and had made it as far as the boarding house's lounge. If she'd been in full health she'd probably have been pacing to and fro with impatience, but in her current fragile state she was quite content to sit by the unlit gas fire, flicking through the pictures in the previous weekend's colour supplement. She didn't look up until a shadow fell across the magazine. 

"Back already?" she began, and looked up. "Oh, it's you. Sorry, I thought it was Isobel." 

"That's right," Babs said, flinging herself into a chair opposite. "Thought I'd pop in and see how you're getting on. Blimey, you look terrible." 

"I feel pretty shaky," Zoë said. "And thank you for your honesty, I suppose. But did you really come here just to ask after my health?" 

"Well..." Babs glanced around, as if worried she'd be overheard. "Did the police come to speak to you?" 

"Yes." 

"So you know about this Leila business, then." 

"Only what the Inspector said. I presume he's asking everyone the same questions." 

Babs nodded. "Suppose so." 

"You know more about this sort of thing than I—" Zoë began, but broke off as Isobel breezed into the hall. 

"Hey there," she said, joining the party. "Zoë, you're looking better." 

"I'd hate to see how bad she looked before, then," Babs said. 

"You're all heart. Anyway, I've been chatting to our firebrand friend. What do you think of my gear, Babs? Don't I look like the most dolly feminist you ever saw?" She looked from Babs to Zoë. "Is there something wrong?" 

"Leila LeGrove's vanished," Babs said. "Last night. It was after the dinner. The Cliftons took us girls back to where we were staying — wouldn't want us out on our own at midnight." 

"Certainly not," Isobel said. 

"They saw Leila go into the Grand Hotel," Zoë went on. "And as far as we know, that's the last anyone saw of her." 

"Probably just having it off with some bloke and overslept," Babs said. "Ten to one she'll show up at the Lido this afternoon. See you there?" 

"I will, definitely," Isobel said. "We'll see how Zoë's feeling nearer the time. By the way," she added, as Babs got up to leave, "keep your eyes out. My informed sources tell me we haven't heard the last from our feminist friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'old rhyme' Zoë quotes is _Who Wouldn't Wanna Be A Pop Star_ by Mitch Benn.


	5. Water Sports

By the afternoon, Zoë was feeling well enough to risk donning a swimsuit and joining the parade of beauties at the Lido, while Isobel joined the small cluster of journalists and photographers covering the event. By the side of the open-air swimming pool, a wooden shelter with a tented roof had been erected; under the roof, the four celebrity judges sat behind a long table. One by one, the models walked out along the poolside, performed a few twirls and steps, and walked back. Contrary to Babs's prediction, Leila LeGrove was nowhere to be seen. 

"Maybe something's happened to her after all," Babs remarked. She, Zoë and the other models were sitting on folding chairs, waiting while the judges conferred. An atmosphere of unease hung over the group. 

"Well, I just hope the police are doing something," Zoë said. "I don't think they were taking it very seriously this morning." 

Babs's expression was that of someone about to impart an unwelcome truth. "You haven't done one of these before, have you? There are girls who get the idea, maybe if they do a few favours for one of the judges they'll win. Sometimes it's their idea, sometimes it's the judge who comes up with it. So that's what everyone'll reckon Leila's up to." 

"You're saying people might think she's having an affair with one of the judges, and that's why she's the favourite?" 

"'Might?'" Babs repeated scornfully. "They'll think it all right. They'll say she's no better than she should be and serve her right if anything happens to her." She thought for a bit. "Not sure I don't think it, come to that. I bet if that Alderman hadn't broken his leg she'd have been flirting round him hoping he'd be sweet on her." 

"If you're implying that she's in some way to blame for being— well, I think that's a very problematic attitude." 

"It's the facts of life, kid." 

"It doesn't have to be this way," Zoë said quietly. 

A brief, awkward silence was broken by the crackle of the public address system. Mr Clifton, who had been hovering at the end of the judges' table, took a couple of steps forward, a bulky microphone in his hand. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "Thank you all for your patience. Now, I believe the panel would like to make a few remarks, so I'll hand the microphone over to a man who I'm sure needs no introduction, the voice of pop: Mick Connell." 

There was a smatter of polite applause from the audience as Mr Clifton passed the microphone to the DJ. 

"I'd like to start by—" he began, but got no further. Clouds of black dust were suddenly pouring out from under the awning, enveloping the four judges, Mr Clifton, and their immediate surroundings. The loudspeakers, with excellent fidelity, relayed the sounds of coughing and swearing. 

"Is that..." Babs leaned forward. "That's soot, isn't it?" 

"It looks as if Isobel was right," Zoë said, raising her voice slightly as the confusion spread. 

"You mean it's those dykes again. Bloody cheek! Just wait till I get my hands on them!" 

"I think it's rather cleverly done..." Zoë began. 

The awning, now barely visible among the billowing clouds of soot, suddenly lurched forward. With a series of shouts and screams, the forms of the four judges could be seen tumbling helplessly into the pool. 

"...No, very cleverly done," Zoë corrected herself. 

Two soot-covered figures, of the approximate outline of Mr and Mrs Clifton, hurried forward to assist. As they reached the poolside, Mr Clifton slipped, lost his balance, clutched at his wife, and succeeded only in dragging her into the water with him. A moment later, they bobbed to the surface, their cries for help mingling with those of the other judges. 

"That must have taken a lot of planning," Zoë said admiringly. "Hang on, where are you going?" 

Babs gave her a scornful look. "Don't know if you've noticed, but we're the ones dressed for swimming. Come on, let's get those nitwits out the water before they all drown." 

She ran forward, hurled herself into the pool with what was less a graceful racing dive than a bellyflop, and began to swim to the rescue. Rather than follow suit, Zoë and some of the other models hurried along the sides of the pool, throwing lifebelts into the water close to the struggling judges. One by one, the bedraggled celebrities, followed by the two Cliftons, were hauled onto the poolside. By the time Babs had reached the area, she was left only with the consolation prize of retrieving the Voice of Pop's bedraggled toupée. 

⁂

"I got some brilliant shots again," Isobel said, spreading slightly damp photographs over Zoë's dressing table. "What do you think of this one?" 

Zoë looked at the picture, which showed a dripping Babs posing with the toupée she'd recovered. She was surrounded by half-a-dozen or so of the other contestants in more or less conventional pin-up poses, though they looked as if they were having difficulty keeping straight faces. 

"I expect you'll sell it," she said, and glanced through the rest of the pictures. "These don't look commercial to me. How many shots of me from behind do you need, anyway?" 

"As many as I can get," Isobel said, with a grin. 

"Well, I hope you didn't waste all your film on that." 

"It wouldn't be a waste. But no, most of the rest's still drying in my room. Why?" 

"Oh, Isobel! Isn't it obvious? That thing to tip soot over the judges and throw them in the pool. It went off as soon as that Connell man started speaking: that means someone set it off manually. Have you got any pictures of who was around when that happened?" 

"I'll make a note to check." Isobel fished out an envelope from her handbag and wrote on it. "I know I'll lose this. Give me a wall any day." 

"The landlady's not going to be happy if you write on her wall." 

"I know, I know." Isobel scribbled a few more words on the envelope, folded it, and tucked it into her blouse. "I think the sisterhood upped their game with that one." 

Zoë nodded. "Definitely. That must have taken a lot of preparation to pull off. Self-contained and much less likely to hurt anyone, too." 

"And it targeted the chauvinists, not the girls," Isobel said. "Janet and whoever she's working for really seem to be getting their act together." 

"Agreed." Zoë sat up straight. "But those feminists aren't the real problem, are they? Unless you think they're the ones responsible for Leila LeGrove's disappearance." 

"No, I don't think that. And whoever did it, I don't like it." 

"Me neither. According to Babs, everyone's going to think she was having an affair with someone involved in the competition, and if he's done anything to her it's her own fault. Really, sometimes you people are no better than barbarians." 

"That isn't fair!" Isobel protested. 

"I think it's entirely fair. But getting back to Leila, I suggest we start making our own inquiries tomorrow." 

⁂

To Isobel, it seemed that she had no sooner dropped off to sleep than she was woken by a soft knock at her door. 

"Are you awake?" Zoë's voice whispered. 

"I am now," Isobel replied, making no effort to disguise her sleepiness. "What's the matter? Can't get to sleep on your own?" 

"No. Come back to my room. Quickly." 

With a yawn, Isobel clambered out of bed and, on tiptoe, followed Zoë to her room. Zoë beckoned her to the window; the curtains were open, giving a splendid view over the estuary. In the darkness, it was a maze of shadows and dark pools. 

"Well?" Isobel asked. 

"There." Zoë pointed. "That light." 

Isobel yawned again. "It's a fishing boat or something." 

"I don't think it is. Fishing boats would carry red and green lights. I think that's a car or a lorry." 

"What, in the middle of the river?" 

"Logically it has to be on the bank, silly. Have you got something to write with? I want to take the bearing." 

Isobel hurried away, returning a few moments later with a pencil and paper. "Why all the fuss about a few lights?" she said. 

"Because I saw them last night from the pier. When I was feeling sick I was leaning on the rail, and I saw something very similar. That's what I couldn't remember this morning." 

"It's still just a lorry. I don't see why it matters." 

"But there's no reason for a lorry to be there. Everything on that side of the river's light industrial premises. They keep normal working hours. I checked at half-past eight this evening and there was no sign of activity anywhere along the waterfront." 

Isobel sighed. "Don't tell me. It's a gang of smugglers come to pick up their barrels of brandy." 

"Have you got a better idea?" 

"It's a lorry making deliveries. And it comes now because it's taken the driver that long to get from wherever he was coming." 

"It's a hypothesis," Zoë said grudgingly. 

Isobel put her arm round Zoë's shoulders, and the two watched in silence as the headlights drew away and disappeared behind a building. 

"Now we're awake, I've got something to show you, too," she said. 

"Strictly in a professional sense, I hope?" Zoë asked. 

"Of course." 

The two returned to Isobel's bedroom, a small room currently filled almost to bursting with photographic impedimenta. Threading her way between lines of photographs hung from the ceiling, Isobel crossed to the dressing table and switched on the table lamp. Two prints were laid out on the table, one beside the other. 

"What do you think?" Isobel asked. "Interesting, aren't they?" 

"Yes," Zoë replied, glancing from one print to the other. "Very."


	6. A Riverside Walk

The following morning was damp and raw. Nevertheless, Zoë and Isobel had made an early start, and were now standing at the end of the pier. Zoë was leaning on the railings, peering through a pair of binoculars. 

"It's got to be in that group," she said, pointing inland at a cluster of buildings facing the river. "I think we should take a bearing from here, too." 

Isobel noted the direction of Zoë's pointing finger, then flipped the top of her wristwatch open. Inside was a tiny compass. 

"Three-five-one," she said, and scribbled the figures onto a scrap of paper. "Now what?" 

"Take a closer look, of course." Zoë lowered the binoculars. 

Isobel gave the estuary a dubious look. "How?" 

"Walk along there." Zoë indicated the edge of the estuary. The tide was a little below full, leaving a narrow strip of mud between the water and the buildings of the town. 

"Not a chance," Isobel said. "It looks completely disgusting. And dangerous. You don't know how deep it is and we haven't even brought wellies." 

"Then we could buy a couple of pairs." 

"And what if we got stuck and the tide came in?" 

"That's a point. It's coming in now." Zoë shrugged. "Well, we can go along the promenade, up that path and then through the town. It'll take longer, of course." 

They set out along the promenade. Before they had reached the riverside path, though, they heard running feet behind them. A moment later, Babs had joined them. 

"I've been looking everywhere for you," she said, once she'd caught up with them and recovered her breath. "Mr Clifton says we need to be at the Recreation Ground by two. Best sportswear." 

"Thanks for the tip," Zoë said. "Was that all?" 

"That's it." Babs showed no signs of taking her leave. "What are you up to?" 

"Zoë's looking for smugglers," Isobel said. "She gets these fancies." 

"Mind if I come with you?" 

"Why not? We could do with the company." 

With Zoë in the lead, the trio walked to the end of the promenade and turned onto the riverside path. In short order, the faded elegance of the seaside buildings was replaced by a succession of near-derelict warehouses. Looking down at the riverbank below, Isobel found herself profoundly grateful that they hadn't tried walking along it; the mud below was littered with unidentifiable but noisome lumps of decaying refuse. 

"Those prawns were local, weren't they?" Zoë asked Babs, coming to a halt. 

Babs nodded. "Yeah, they made a big thing of it. You don't think..." 

"I do think." Zoë pointed down to where a large concrete pipe protruded from the bank, exuding a foul-smelling trickle of brown sludge. "I think that's a sewage outfall. This era really needs to get its priorities in order. Of all the things that Alderman kept promising, he didn't once mention not dumping raw sewage in the sea." 

Isobel wrinkled her nose. "Ewwwwwww." 

"That's revolting," Babs said. "I'm never eating prawns again." 

After a while, their route left the waterside, though the river was still visible from time to time through the gaps in the buildings. Rather than warehouses, this area was given over to factories, most of which looked as if they needed a lick of paint. Or, in some cases, complete demolition and replacement. 

"Hey," Isobel said suddenly, catching Zoë's arm. "I'm sure that was Janet." 

"Where?" 

"Over there." She pointed, but there was now no sign of the young activist. "She must have gone round the corner. I wonder what she's doing round here?" 

"Bet you anything she's up to no good," Babs said. "Probably stocking up on something nasty to throw at us." 

"Go and investigate her if you want to," Zoë said. "But we haven't got that much time before we've got to get ready for this afternoon. And I want to look at..." She glanced at Babs, as if weighing up what she could mention in front of a third party. "I want to finish our walk by then." 

Fifteen further minutes' walking brought Zoë, Babs and Isobel to the group of buildings that Zoë was, presumably, aiming for. On the landward side, the site was surrounded by a high, forbidding wall topped with broken glass. The only entrance was blocked by a rusty, padlocked gate. By peering through the gate, it was possible to discern a collection of ramshackle buildings, constructed of a mixture of brick, timber and corrugated iron. Their windows and doors appeared to be boarded up. An ancient sign, its lettering barely legible, announced that these were the premises of Hodgson and Sons — Brewers. 

"It's obvious no-one's been here for years," Babs proclaimed. 

Zoë shook her head. "Look at the gate. Those hinges have been oiled recently, and the padlock's new." 

"Well, there's no-one here now." 

"Agreed." Zoë craned her neck, trying to see as much as she could. "I wish we could make a more thorough investigation." 

Babs folded her arms. "Why? What's so special about this place?" 

"There were people here last night. And the night before. That was the night when Miss LeGrove went missing." 

"What's she got to do with this place?" 

Zoë spread her hands. "I've no idea. But if there's suspicious nocturnal activity going on here, I think we need to see if there's a connection." 

"Maybe we could get in round the back?" Isobel suggested. 

The rear of the brewery proved to be no more accessible. The walls gave way to spiked railings, which ran some way out into the water. Between the railings, a decrepit-looking jetty protruded from the back of the brewery's largest and most solid building: a tall, grim brick structure topped with a tower. 

Isobel turned to face downriver, and flipped her wristwatch open again. "One-seven-one to the pier. This has got to be the place. Now what?" 

"We'd could get through the railings there," Zoë said, surveying the dismal scene. "But then we'd have to swim." 

"Count me out," Babs said firmly. 

"It doesn't look so polluted here now we're further upstream." 

"I agree with Babs." Isobel closed the watch. "Hey, have you seen the time?" 

Babs checked her own watch. "Blimey. We need to get back and changed." 

"It shouldn't take that long," Zoë said. "But you're right. We've been here longer than we should." 

⁂

Though the drizzle had eased off, it was still not exactly a warm afternoon when the contestants arrived at the Brinshore Recreation Ground. Dressed as for tennis, Zoë found herself distinctly on the chilly side. As at the Lido, the judges were seated under a temporary awning, while a collection of mismatched seats had been provided for the press and public. The judges, Zoë thought, looked distinctly on the nervous side, and from time to time glanced around as if expecting another torrent of soot. 

"My lords, honoured guests, lovely contestants, ladies and gentlemen," Mr Clifton announced, taking his place in front of the awning. "Thank you all for attending, and I'm pleased to announce that despite his injuries, Alderman Rowlandson has been able to join us." 

The Alderman, who was seated in a wheelchair with his leg in a plaster cast, gave the assembled group a wave. He was accompanied, Zoë noted, by two young, pretty nurses whose expressions suggested he was not their favourite patient. 

"We'll have the final parade now," Mr Clifton continued. "Then a cream tea in the clubhouse, followed by the award of the crown for Miss South Sussex." 

"More of the same, then," Babs muttered. 

Zoë made a noncomittal reply. She was more concerned by a different matter: in the last couple of minutes, Isobel had left her place with the photographers and was now nowhere to be seen.


	7. Grand Finale

The rear of the clubhouse was not an easy place to reach, particularly when you wanted to make sure you arrived unseen. Isobel had only managed to accomplish this by dint of struggling through a thicket of rhododendrons. Now, hot, red-faced, and with her hair in a tangle, she cautiously moved a branch aside and peeped into a back window. 

"I thought so," she muttered, letting the branch swing back into position. "The grand finale." 

She retreated a few paces into the rhododendrons. 

"Decisions, decisions," she murmured. The situation was a tricky one. A couple of days before, she wouldn't have had any qualms about letting events take their course. But knowing what she did now, matters weren't so clear-cut. The problem was, even if she knew what had to be done, there was only one of her, and rather more of... well, she couldn't think of them as 'enemy'. Their hearts were definitely in the right place. 

Summoning up her courage, she crawled hastily through the rhododendrons. 

⁂

"Looks like rain," Babs remarked gloomily. "Get a move on." 

"There are worse things than rain." Zoë shuffled from one foot to another. "I wish this was over with." 

Babs patted her on the shoulder. "These things always take ages. Load of windbags who love the sound of their own voices. Anyway, those punters all paid for a good look at us. They want their money's worth, don't they?" 

Zoë made no answer. 

⁂

Isobel straightened her hair as best she could, walked into the clubhouse as if she had every right to be there, and waited near the back of the building for the person she was expecting to put in an appearance. 

"Hi, Janet," she said. "Need a hand?" 

"Oh!" Janet Povey jumped, and nearly dropped the empty tray she was carrying. "What are you doing here, Isobel?" 

"Thought I'd help with the cause, that's all." 

"But I didn't tell you... how did you know?" 

"I didn't," Isobel said cheerfully. "I guessed. Come on, let's pick up the next load." 

Taking Janet firmly by the arm, she led her back to the entrance of the building. 

"I suppose one of your top brass came up with this idea," she went on. "Get you all hired as staff for the presentation. No-one ever looks at a waitress, do they?" 

"Until it's too late," Janet said, with a nervous laugh. 

"Quite." They emerged from the building and crossed to where a large van, bearing the name of a local baker, was parked. The two crossed to the rear of it. 

"My girlfriend wouldn't like this," Isobel said, as she loaded cream-topped pies from the van onto the tray Janet was holding. "She'd say it was a waste of good food." 

"Oh, they're all past their sell-by date," Janet said. "That's how we got them so cheap. Thanks, that's as many as I can take." 

"OK, I'll be right behind you." Isobel waited until Janet was safely inside the building, then strolled round to the front of the van. "Is there anything that's got to be signed for these, do you know?" 

"Gave it to one of your lot," the driver replied. "Fat bint with red hair." 

Isobel gave him a perfunctory "Thanks," returned to the van, hastily picked up another trayload of pies, and headed back into the building. _Drat_ , she reflected silently. 

⁂

"You know what?" Babs said. "Those lezzies haven't tried anything yet." 

"They're not les— oh, what's the use?" Zoë clasped her hands nervously. "Well, the police must have checked this area for any traps with a fine-toothed comb. And if they try any direct action, they'll be arrested straight away." She nodded at the constables scattered around the periphery of the pageant. "I'm not sure what's left for them to do." 

"They're up to something. Remember Isobel thought she saw that dyke — what's her name, Janet — this morning." 

"I wish you'd stop using that sort of language. And where can Isobel have got to?" 

"You don't think she spotted her again and went after her?" 

"That's a definite possibility." Zoë fidgeted again. "I hope she doesn't do anything rash." 

⁂

In the function room of the clubhouse, it was plain that preparations for the presentation ceremony were already well underway. Elegant circular tables, set out as for tea, were dotted around the middle of the floor, while a raised dais at one end had obviously been made ready for the distinguished guests and the eventual victor. To these mundane preparations had been added two long tables, one at either side of the room. Each was currently about three-quarters full of the same pies as Isobel had brought from the van. 

"Where do you want these?" Isobel asked, sailing into the room with a confidence she certainly didn't feel. 

Several women turned to face her, with no very friendly expressions. Like Janet, they were all dressed as caterering workers, but Isobel recognised several of their faces from her photographs of the original protest. 

"And who the hell are you?" the apparent ringleader demanded. Isobel noted the woman's red hair and heavy build, reconciled it with the van driver's description, and took additional notice of the rolled-up sheet of paper tucked into the woman's sleeve. _That had just better be the delivery note,_ she thought. 

"It's all right," Janet said hastily, stepping forward. "Isobel's a friend of the movement." 

"That's right," Isobel said. She walked down the room, running a gauntlet of suspicious looks, until she was within a few paces of the ringleader. "Are you Ms Grey? Or Ms Blue, perhaps?" 

"Blue." The woman gave her a curt nod. "Put the tray down there. I'll make up my own mind what to do with you." 

"Right you are," Isobel said, turned away, and set the tray down on the table — then swung round, a pie in each hand, and shoved one into the woman's face. Taking advantage of her victim's momentary disorientation, she snatched the delivery note, shoving it into her jacket as she jumped back. 

"What are you..." Janet began, before she was cut off by Isobel's other pie. 

"Sorry," Isobel said, scooping up more pies from the table and hurling them more or less at random. As she'd hoped, some of the women grabbed pies of their own, and returned fire. "Nothing personal." 

"Get her!" the ringleader's voice shouted. 

Isobel made for the door, overturning tables as she went. Rather than a gauntlet of hostile gazes, this time she was bombarded with thrown pies, several which found their mark. Halfway down the room she slipped on a patch of cream and nearly lost her footing, but was up again before anyone could lay a hand on her. 

"I meant grab her!" Ms Blue hollered. "Stop wasting ammo!" 

_Too late for that_ , Isobel thought, as something sticky hit the side of her head. The door wasn't too far away; she threw herself towards it. A hand caught at her arm, but she was able to pull away and make it into the hallway. Not slackening her pace, she raced down the hall, smashed the glass on a fire alarm without breaking step, and burst out of the front door. 

She didn't dare look behind, but she was positive that, like an enraged swarm of wasps, Ms Blue and her subordinates were giving chase. 

⁂

"And now," Mr Clifton said. "I'd like to invite you to come with me to the clubhouse, where..." 

He was cut off by the approach of a man dressed as a fireman, who seemed insistent on having an urgent word. 

"Now what?" Babs grumbled. 

Zoë looked distinctly worried. "I don't know. I hope it isn't anything to do with..." Her face suddenly brightened, and she pointed over Babs's shoulder. "Isobel!" 

Babs turned round, and was rewarded with the sight of Isobel, her clothes and hair splattered with blobs of cream, approaching them at a run. A little way behind, a group of women in similarly cream-splashed clothes were giving furious chase, but fell back as Isobel reached one of the constables guarding the event. She dug out her photographer's pass and showed it to the officer, combining it with a hasty gesture at the women pursuing her. A few moments later, gasping for breath, she arrived at the models' area. 

"Isobel!" Zoë exclaimed. "What on earth have you been doing?" 

Isobel was doubled over, still trying to force air into her lungs. "Custard pie fight," she eventually managed. 

"Looks like you got really into it," Babs said. 

"Don't I know it!" Isobel straightened up and tried to wipe some of the mess off her jacket, succeeding only in smearing it further. She looked around for signs of her pursuers, to see that they in turn had now become the pursued, scattering as the police advanced on them. 

"So what's the story?" Zoë asked. 

"Janet and her friends. They were going to turn the cream tea into a pie fight." Isobel couldn't help laughing at the thought. "It would have been really spectacular. You'd all have been sitting ducks, the way they'd got it set up. I'm almost sorry I had to spoil it." 

"I'm not," Babs said firmly. 

"So why did you sabotage it, then?" Zoë asked, more practically. 

"I needed this." Isobel drew the delivery note from her pocket. "It's the delivery note for the pies. With any luck it'll say who ordered them." 

Zoë took the note, and glanced through it. "Nice work. You're right, it's her again." 

"Anyway," Isobel said, taking the note back. "I had to cause a distraction to get away with the note. So I set the pie fight off early." She raised a cautious hand to her hair, and grimaced. "I must look a complete fright." 

"'Bout time you got your hands dirty," Babs said. "Makes a change from hanging around taking snapshots of everyone else getting it in the neck." 

"It's a pity I haven't got a camera," Zoë added. "She looks an absolute picture, doesn't she?" 

"Could I have your attention, please?" Mr Clifton's amplified voice broke into their conversation. "It seems there's been a slight hitch at the clubhouse..." 

"Slight hitch," Babs repeated, looking Isobel up and down. "Right." 

"...Um, so we'll proceed with the final announcement of the results straight away. I'll hand you over once again to the voice of pop, Mick Connell." 

This time, there was no sudden disaster, and the DJ confidently took the microphone. 

"We're all agreed it was a tough job choosing between such lovely ladies," he began. "But we've come to a decision on the final result. In third place, we chose number six." 

Mr Clifton examined his list of contestants. "That's Wendy Stamford from Tilling. If you could come up, please, Wendy?" 

The contestant made her way forward, to be presented with a green sash, an envelope, and a bunch of flowers. 

"Our runner-up was number one." 

"Emma Cooke, from Birlstone. Emma, will you join us, please?" 

To the accompaniment of further polite applause, Miss Cooke was given a similar award. 

"And our winner," the DJ concluded, "by the narrowest of margins, was number ten." 

"That'll be Barbara Tucker from Valley Fields," Mr Clifton concluded. "Barbara, please, step forward." 

Babs had gone chalk-white and, with her hand to her mouth, seemed temporarily robbed of the power of speech. Looking positively dazed, she joined the other winners. This time, not only was she presented with the usual sash, envelope and bouquet, but a small tiara was set on her head amid a blaze of flashbulbs. 

"I ought to be over there," Isobel muttered, nodding at the photographers' enclosure. 

"Yes, you could really have got some marketable shots," Zoë said. "Probably not as marketable as if you'd let that pie fight happen, though." 

"I was really tempted," Isobel said. "But needs must. I think it's time we made our move, don't you? Strike while the iron's hot." 

"I've never understood that expression. When you're ironing you don't hit anything." 

"It doesn't mean that sort of iron. Come on. Now, while everyone's looking at Babs."


	8. Trouble Brewing

"Can we have a word?" Zoë asked. 

Mrs Clifton swung round. 

"Oh. Yes. Miss Heriot, of course. If there's anything you want to ask me about..." She looked across at Isobel, seeming to find it hard not to stare at her cream-splattered clothes and hair. "I'm sorry, I don't recall your name. That man from the fire brigade was saying something about vandals and food fights. Are you all right?" 

"Nothing a bath and a change of clothes won't cure," Isobel said. "But I'm afraid I don't have time for that now. We need to have a little talk to you in private. Is there somewhere we can go?" 

"I suppose there's our car." Mrs Clifton gave them a nervous look, her blonde ringlets appearing to tremble in sympathy. "This all sounds very serious." 

"It just might be," Isobel said. 

The walk to the car was short, silent and awkward. Mrs Clifton unlocked both front doors of the Vauxhall Victor, and climbed onto the broad front seat. Isobel and Zoë climbed in after her: Zoë on the left, Isobel on the right. 

"Sorry about the mess I'm making," Isobel said. "And about the mess I made of your pie fight." 

Mrs Clifton gave her a blank look. "I don't understand." 

"Well, you arranged it." Isobel triumphantly produced the delivery note. "All those pies were ordered in your name." 

"It, it," Mrs Clifton appeared to be having some difficulty finding the words. "It's a forgery, of course, you silly girl." 

"We'll see what the handwriting experts say about that," Isobel said. "And— no you don't!" She hastily withdrew the note as Mrs Clifton tried to grab it, and tucked it back into her jacket. 

"Whoever was organising those protests had to be someone with inside knowledge," Zoë added. "Keeping up with every last-minute change to the arrangements, knowing which route to ambush. There can't be that many people who'd have the opportunity." 

"Plus, we've got the photos," Isobel said, extracting two photographic enlargements from a wallet. "You can tear these ones up if you like, the negatives are quite safe. Exhibit A: Your husband helping you out of the swimming pool yesterday. It's amazing how different you look with your hair wet. Almost brunette. In fact, you look just like Exhibit B, here. Mystery woman who tipped the Alderman out of his lorry. Mrs Clifton... or should I say, Ms Grey? Now, I think it's our duty as upstanding citizens to give all this information to the police. But perhaps we can come to an alternative arrangement." 

"You... you...." Mrs Clifton swayed, and for a moment seemed about to faint. Instead, she recovered enough to whisper "What do you want?" 

"We want the truth about Leila LeGrove," Zoë said. "Where is she?" 

"Her?" Mrs Clifton's voice was suddenly filled with anger. "I don't know. I haven't seen the little bitch. I wish I had. Oh, God, I wish I had." 

"What's the matter?" 

Mrs Clifton dug in her handbag and produced a handkerchief. "This was in my husband's pocket yesterday." 

"And isn't it his?" 

"Oh, it's his all right. Smell it. Go on." 

Isobel took the handkerchief, and gave it a cautious sniff. 

"That's her perfume. She's been leading him astray. She wouldn't stop at anything to win the contest. It's not David's fault. He wouldn't realise she was leading him on." 

"But she hasn't won the contest," Zoë said sharply. "She's disappeared." 

"David couldn't have had anything to do with that." Mrs Clifton's voice had a new note of panic. "I swear. We were together all that night, from when we saw her into the hotel to when the policemen came asking questions." 

"Well, she's gone," Zoë said. "You say your husband couldn't have done it. Thanks to you Alderman Rowlandson was in hospital. Who does that leave? The other judges, I suppose... Oh, Isobel, have you finished with that handkerchief?" 

"Here you go," Isobel said, passing the white square of fabric across. 

"I don't know." Mrs Clifton shivered. "It's just been a—" 

"Isobel," Zoë said sharply. "Can you drive this thing?" 

"I don't see why not," Isobel said. 

"Then get us to the brewery. Fast as you can. Give her the key, Mrs Clifton." 

"But why..." Mrs Clifton began. 

"Give it to her," Zoë said, her voice controlled and level, "or I'll have to resort to force." 

Her expression wavering between bafflement and worry, Mrs Clifton handed the key over. Isobel started the engine, and backed the car out of its space at a distinctly higher speed than would normally have been considered safe. 

"You'll have to give me directions," she said. 

"Left onto the main road," Zoë said. "Then second right." 

"What's all the hurry, anyway?" 

"The perfume," Zoë said. "It isn't perfume. It's Blaze." 

"Slow down a bit for the simple-minded. What's Blaze?" 

Zoë took a deep breath. "OK. In my time, there's a medicine called Vespiplex that's used to treat space-sickness. But if you apply a fairly simple chemical transformation to it, you end up with Blaze. It's supposed to give you a tremendous feeling of well-being." 

"You mean it's a drug?" 

"That's right. I've never taken it, but I've known people who did. The problem is that there's a very narrow margin between a dose that makes you feel good and a dose that does permanent damage. Down that street." 

"What sort of damage?" 

"Muscle erosion, mostly," Zoë said. "Full paralysis in some cases. One boy I knew ended up in an exoskeleton at nineteen." 

"Gosh." Isobel shook her head. "It's just... that's not the sort of thing I expect when I think of your world." 

"Nobody's perfect, I'm afraid. Anyway, I've never taken Blaze but I know what it smells like." 

"I see." Isobel swerved wildly to avoid running over a cyclist. "Zoë, you say this drug is made from a space-sickness medicine?" 

Zoë gave her the sort of approving look that a teacher might give a dogged pupil. "Yes." 

"So when was it invented?" 

"I don't have an exact date, but not earlier than the Fifties. The _Twenty_ -Fifties." 

"So how can it be somewhere around here if it hasn't been invented yet?" 

"I can think of three possibilities," Zoë said. "One, someone's happened across an alternative synthesis path. That's pretty unlikely with twentieth-century chemistry, but I suppose it might be possible. Two, there's some kind of extraterrestrial involvement." 

"What, aliens coming here to sell us drugs? How would they know..." 

"That's certainly a significant objection to that idea: they'd have to know an awful lot about human body chemistry. The third possibility is time travel." 

"Someone's sending these drugs back in time from the future?" 

Zoë nodded. "And presumably getting paid for it. Maybe something as simple as burying silver in a known place where the person in the future knows it won't be disturbed." 

"Not gold?" 

"Maybe, but silver's got more applications, so per kilo it's worth more. In my time, that is." 

"But..." Mrs Clifton seemed to have caught up with at least some of the conversation. "You mean Leila was taking this drug? That was what she meant when she—" 

"When she _what?_ " Isobel asked sharply. 

"That last day. She kept pestering me. Asking me if anyone had given me a parcel for her. David, too. I thought it was something to do with her fancy-man." 

"Who you later decided was your husband," Zoë said. "Well, if you were with him all the time, how do you account for his handkerchief smelling of Blaze?" 

"It must have been when he dropped his handkerchief," Mrs Clifton said dully. 

"When did he drop it? And where?" 

"That night. And where?" The car swung round a corner, and the abandoned brewery loomed up in front of them. "In there." 

Isobel brought the car to a halt before the gates. "So you were here that night." 

"Yes. We came here after we'd dropped the Leila girl off at her hotel. David said it was something the Alderman had asked us to do — he couldn't do it himself because..." 

"Because he was in hospital," Zoë said. 

"Yes. David had been there earlier to let the men in. When we went back all we had to do was make sure they'd left the place tidy and lock up. That was it. Except I remember he dropped his handkerchief, and it took him a bit to find it in the dark. He just stuck it in his pocket." 

"Hang on," Isobel said. "What men did he let in?" 

"I don't know. They were dressed like builders and they had a lorry." 

Zoë, who'd been fidgeting, opened the car door sharply. "We can discuss this later. Right now, we need to get in there." 

"Do you have the key, Mrs Clifton?" Isobel asked. 

Mrs Clifton shook her head. "No. David had it. He's probably given it back to the Alderman by now." 

"Then it's the back way or nothing," Zoë said. "You're coming with us." 

Since that morning, the tide had subsided enough that the gap between the shore and the brewery landing stage was now, rather than water, a gleaming expanse of mud. Zoë cautiously squeezed through a gap in the railings and lowered herself into this area, grimacing as her plimsolls sank from view. After a few experimental steps, the mud was up to her knees; but as she continued to wade forward, her arms spread wide for balance, she sank no deeper. 

"I think we can get in this way," she called back. "Just be careful." 

Reluctantly, Isobel and Mrs Clifton followed her, and all three reached the landing stage with no major mishap. One by one, they climbed up onto it, and approached the main building. All the doors and windows on that side were boarded over, so they walked around the building until they were in the courtyard. 

"When you were here before, exactly what did you do?" Zoë asked. 

"We went inside." Mrs Clifton indicated the building they'd just circumnavigated. "We had to check the inventory." 

"Is the door locked?" 

"It wasn't then." 

A quick experiment soon indicated that this was still the case, and the group cautiously advanced through a musty lobby into a large open space, at least two storeys high. Even in the afternoon, the boarded-up windows meant that the interior of the brewery was a place of gloom and shadow, while the lobby blocked any light from the door by which they had entered. Huge, rusting vats, visible only as patches of deeper darkness, towered over the three visitors. 

"So where was this inventory you had to check?" Isobel asked. "Hang on, I've got a torch somewhere... Here." 

She pulled out a pocket torch and switched it on, her cream-smeared jacket making her look almost ghostly in the sudden light. Carefully, she swept the beam across the cracked, dusty concrete floor, until it settled on several pallets. 

"That's it," Mrs Clifton said. "Deliveries." 

"Industrical chemicals," Isobel said, letting the beam of the torch play over the pallets. "And supplies: copper wire, rubber tubes, and so on. Is this all as you left it?" 

"Yes, I think so... no. Everything was wrapped up, then. Someone's unwrapped that one. And that one. Look." 

"Were you here last night as well?" Zoë asked. "I saw lights here." 

"Yes. The same thing. We let the men in, and came back later to lock up." 

"And is everything else as you left it?" 

"There were some boxes on the other side," Mrs Clifton said. "Over there." 

Isobel obligingly turned the torch round, illuminating a stack of cardboard boxes. 

"Those ones?" she asked. 

"Yes. Except there are more." Mrs Clifton paused. "Both times, when we opened up, there were quite a lot of boxes. And when we came back, most of them had gone. Now there are more again." 

"So someone's making them," Isobel said. 

Zoë darted across to the boxes, cautiously sniffed one, opened it, and held up a sachet of white powder. 

"I think this is Blaze," she said. 

Isobel nodded. "These men bring whoever it is chemicals and they use them to make Blaze. And then they take the Blaze away. It's got to be the Alderman running the whole show, hasn't it? Except when he broke his leg, he got Mr and Mrs Clifton here to handle it." 

"I didn't know what it was!" Mrs Clifton protested. "If I'd known it was drugs I wouldn't have gone near it!" 

"That means," Zoë said, ignoring her, "there could well be someone here now making the Blaze. And we're the only ones who know. We need to get the word out before something happens to us. Isobel, have you got the communicator?" 

"Sorry," Isobel said. "It's back at the recreation ground with my camera." 

"Then give me the torch and go and find a telephone. Get hold of UNIT." 

"Not the police? They'd be quicker." 

"I think we need UNIT. Remember, we might be dealing with aliens or time travel." 

"Well, all right." Isobel reluctantly handed the torch over. "But don't do anything till I come back." 

"Sorry," Zoë said. "I can't wait till then. Mrs Clifton and I are going to look for Leila."


	9. Habemus Corpus

It had taken Isobel far longer than she'd have liked to retrace her footsteps through the mud of the estuary, climb back through the railings onto dry land, and search through the industrial estate until she found a building that had both a working telephone, and an occupant prepared to let her use it. Hastily, she put the call through to UNIT, and described their situation, first to a corporal she didn't know, and then to the Brigadier. 

"We'll be there just as fast as a chopper can fly, Miss Watkins," he said, after hearing her account. "Don't do anything rash in the meantime." 

"Sorry," Isobel said. "We're well past that. See you soon, I hope." 

Feeling a growing sense of dread, she hung up and walked back to the brewery. As she reached the gates, she heard running footsteps, and Babs's voice called "Oi!" 

"Babs?" Isobel looked round. The newly-crowned Miss South Sussex was still dressed as she had been when accepting her prize, down to the sash and tiara — though the tiara was now noticeably askew, and its wearer much redder in the face. "Where did you spring from?" 

"From the Recreation Ground, where d'you think? I saw you two going off somewhere, and you didn't come back. And one of the coppers said he'd seen you driving off with the Clifton woman. So first chance I got I said I needed the loo, and I climbed out the window and came here. 'Cos where else would you go?" 

"Listen, that's great, Babs," Isobel said hastily. "But we think..." 

"We?" Babs repeated. "Where's Zoë, then?" 

"In the factory. She thinks they could be holding Leila in there, so she's looking for her. She sent me to phone for help." 

"And have you?" 

"Just got back." 

"Right. Then we're going in." 

"Babs, you've no idea what's in there! It could be dangerous. I can't risk your life." 

Babs folded her arms. "It's my life and I'll risk it all on my own if I want to. Try and stop me." 

"OK." Isobel climbed through the railings and began, once again, to wade across the mud. "This way." 

"Go in that stuff? You're serious?" 

"It's the only way in." 

"Yuck." Babs jumped down after her, landing with a squelch and nearly losing her balance. "So what's the story?" 

"We think there's someone here making a drug called Blaze. It's mixed up with Leila, somehow, because Mrs Clifton smelled it on her. She thought it was a perfume." 

"Yeah," Babs said slowly. "Her perfume was a bit funny, come to think of it." 

Isobel clambered up onto the jetty, which creaked alarmingly under her. "Anyway, Zoë seems to think one of the gang brought Leila here. And maybe she's still here. Want a hand?" 

"Thanks, I'm OK." Babs hauled herself up. "Let's find Zoë." 

She took a step towards the main building. As she did so, a terrified shriek rent the air. 

"That was—" Babs began. 

"Trouble." Isobel was already running round the outside of the building. "Come on!" 

⁂

Above its main hall, the brewery building had run to three further floors, each subdivided into numerous rooms and factory spaces. In the reluctant company of Mrs Clifton, Zoë had made an examination of each area, but discovered only abandoned, rusty machinery and pipework. 

"Does that mean Leila isn't here?" Mrs Clifton asked nervously, as they descended the staircase. 

Zoë scratched her head. "She could be in one of the other buildings. But from what you've said, this is the one that's being used as the centre of operations. The deliveries get put here, the Blaze is put here to take away... Oh. That's a thought." 

"What?" 

"You said your husband dropped his handkerchief, and you think that was where it picked up the Blaze. But in those boxes, it's in powdered form. There wasn't any liquid. Can you remember whereabouts that was?" 

Mrs Clifton led her to one of the vats. 

"Somewhere near here, I think," she said. 

Zoë shone the torch over the floor. 

"There," she said. "That stain." She knelt down and sniffed at it. "It's all dried up now, but I think that must have been Blaze." She straightened up, and shone her torch upward. "Look, there's a similar mark on the ceiling. It must have come down from the room above." 

"But we looked in every room." 

Zoë closed her eyes and put her fingers to her temples. "No. We looked in every room _that we could find_. There must be a door we missed." 

Taking Mrs Clifton firmly by the arm, she more or less dragged her up the staircase and along a corridor, counting under her breath as she went. 

"It should be there," she said. "But there's no door." She shone the torch carefully over the partition wall. "Perhaps you get at it from the next room." 

She continued along the corridor to the next doorway, stepped through it, and crossed to the presumed dividing wall. An ancient, battered desk stood against it; Zoë dropped to her hands and knees, and peered through. 

"In here," she said. "Come on." 

Mrs Clifton hesitated, but she'd been in this situation numerous times since she first came to the factory. However frightening it was to be with this crazy young woman, it was worse being in the darkness on her own, without even the light of a torch. Reluctantly, she crawled under the desk. A hole in the wall led through into the room beyond. 

On the left, as Mrs Clifton saw it, was a long workbench, on which stood various items of glassware. In the centre of the room, Zoë was standing, her torch aimed at the back wall. And, lying at the foot of the wall, was the motionless, waxy figure of a young woman. The air was full of the stench of putrefaction. 

"We're too late," Zoë said. "Far too late." 

Mrs Clifton risked another look at the body. Though the exposed parts were distorted and discoloured, she couldn't help recognising the dress as the one Leila LeGrove had worn, the last time they had parted. 

She let out the scream that had been building within her. 

⁂

"Where did it come from?" Babs asked. 

"Somewhere up there," Isobel said. "This is hopeless. I can't see a thing without a light." 

"Hang on." There was a scraping noise, a _snap_ , and the steady flame of a cigarette lighter illuminated Babs's face. "OK, now you've got light. Where do we go?" 

"I think the stairs were this way," Isobel began, but before she could get further, the light of the torch was seen, and almost at once Zoë came into view. She was followed by Mrs Clifton, who stopped a few paces from the bottom of the staircase, leaned over the handrail, and threw up. 

"Did you find...?" Isobel asked, tailing off. 

"We found what was left of Leila," Zoë said. 

"Oh no. What happened?" 

"There's a lab of sorts up there; I think it's where they've been making the drug. There were a few bottles there in the liquid state. Leila must have found her way in and tried to give herself a dose — but she didn't have any way of knowing the strength." 

"You're sure someone didn't give it to her?" 

Zoë shook her head. "There was dust on the floor. People had been in and out, but they only went to the workbench. The only footprints near Leila were her own." 

"You mean they were in and out while she was lying there?" Isobel asked incredulously. "And they just left her there?" 

"That's what the evidence suggests. Either whoever it was is very callous, or they're, well, inhuman." 

"How did she get in?" Babs asked. 

"The gates have been unlocked, these last two nights. She could just have sneaked in when nobody was looking. I don't know how she knew to come here, though, or how she knew which room the stuff was in." 

"That Alderman must have brought her here before," Isobel suggested. 

"That's a reasonable hypothesis." 

"Then that's everything sorted out. Case done and dusted, and I hope that Alderman goes down for a good long stretch. Come on, let's get out of here. I'm really looking forward to changing out of these horrid mucky clothes." 

Zoë turned to Mrs Clifton, who had finished retching and was now repeatedly wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. "I think Isobel's got a point. Do you think—" 

What her question would have been remained a mystery. A loud clang echoed through the brewery, followed by a series of thumping footsteps. Zoë swung the torch in the direction from which the noises were emanating. For less than a second, its beam flashed across a figure standing just inside the doorway that led to freedom. Even in that brief glimpse, though, the figure's smooth, metallic face, its empty eyes, and the bars on each side of its head were enough for both Isobel and Zoë to recognise it beyond all doubt. 

The Cyberman advanced slowly towards them.


	10. A Blaze of Glory

"What the hell's that thing?" Babs demanded. 

"Never mind what it is, get away from it!" Isobel snapped. "Up the stairs. You too, Mrs Clifton." 

"Wait!" Zoë called. "Grab those boxes first." 

She dashed across to the stack of cardboard boxes, snatched up two, hurried back to the staircase, and shoved them into Mrs Clifton's hands. 

"Come on!" she said, and ran back for a second trip. Isobel and Babs hesitated, then followed suit. This time, on returning, she ran up the stairs without stopping. 

"It didn't fire at us," Isobel said, as she gained the landing. "It had a clear shot and it didn't fire." 

"I'll explain later," Zoë said. "Stack the boxes here. That's right. Has someone got a source of flame?" 

Isobel held out her hand. "Babs, your lighter." 

"Here." Babs handed over her lighter. "What is that thing? A robot?" 

"No, a cyborg," Isobel said, passing the lighter to Zoë. "The Cybermen used to be like us, but they replaced more and more of their body parts with machines. Zoë, what are you doing?" 

"Taking advantage of another characteristic of Blaze," Zoë said, holding the lighter to the flap of one of the boxes. "Why do you think they called it that?" 

"You mean..." 

"It's highly flammable." She jumped back as the box burst into flames. At the same moment, the Cyberman could be seen below, taking its first step onto the staircase. "Now run. This way." 

They ran, their way illuminated by the steadily growing flames behind them. 

"In here." Zoë dived through a doorway, arriving in a debris-strewn room. 

"But it's a dead end!" Babs protested. 

"That door's in the wall facing the river. It must have been used for loading or unloading." Zoë indicated a boarded-up doorway on the far wall. "If we can get it open, hopefully there's a hoist or something we can use to get down onto the jetty." 

"'Hopefully?'" Mrs Clifton repeated. 

"She's making this up as she goes along," Isobel said, picking up a lump of timber. "Come on, let's get this thing open." 

Babs, who had remained at the door, stuck her head back into the room. 

"He's coming up the stairs," she said. "I can see his head." 

The building was shaken by a long, rumbling crash. Babs hastily looked out again. 

"I think the stairs just fell down," she said. "I can't see him any more. Do you think it killed him?" 

"We can only hope," Isobel said grimly, hammering away at the boards. "Zoë, you said you'd explain later why he didn't shoot us." 

"Because he wanted us alive," Zoë said. "To make more Cybermen." 

"Are you sure?" 

"On the balance of probabilities." She kicked at a board, managing to knock it a few inches from its place. "I think that was why he was trying to get people hooked on Blaze. Aliens with a good knowledge of human body chemistry," she added, more or less to herself. "I should have thought of the Cybermen straight off. I think the idea was to get enough addicts that some of them would be paralysed, and then use their bodies as sources for spare organs." 

"And those electrical supplies would be for the metal parts?" 

"That's right." 

"But they didn't use Leila." 

"I don't think they found her. At least, not until she was already dead." 

"Zoë, you know how if you see one cockroach that usually means there are a lot more? How many Cybermen do you think there are here?" 

Zoë gave her a worried look. "I don't know." 

"It's not those tin robots you need to worry about," Babs said. "This place is going up like tinder. The fire's halfway down the passage already." 

"Then we need to get these boards off before it gets here," Isobel said, renewing her hammering efforts. 

By the time they had managed to remove sufficient boards from the doorway, smoke and flames were already licking round the far end of the room, and the door into the corridor. Zoë stuck her head through the narrow gap betwen the boards, then withdrew it. 

"If there was a hoist, it's gone," she said. "We'll have to jump for it." 

Babs stared at her. "You're kidding. We'll break every bone in our bodies!" 

"We'll stand a better chance if we aim for the river rather than the jetty," Zoë went on. "The mud should break our fall." 

"You're not serious." 

"Well, you can always stay here in a burning building full of Cybermen," Zoë said. "I'll go first. Isobel, if this doesn't work out, I love you." 

"And I love you." Isobel glanced at the two other occupants of the room, shrugged, and enfolded Zoe in an embrace. Their lips met, and they shared a long, passionate kiss. 

Babs stared at them in horror. "What the blazes are you doing?" 

"Oh, didn't we tell you?" Zoë said, gently disengaging from Isobel. "We're a bit more than business partners." 

"You mean you're—" 

"We're a couple. Your preferred expression is 'lezzies,' isn't it?" 

"Or 'dykes,'" Isobel added. 

"Or 'rug-munchers.'" 

"And you've had no problem treating us like proper human beings for the past couple of days," Isobel concluded triumphantly. "Just keep on with it, and you'll be fine." 

Zoe bestowed a final kiss on Isobel, then turned to face the window. "Here goes." 

She launched herself through the window. There was a distant sound of impact, something between a splash and a squelch. 

"Safely down," her voice called. Isobel looked out, to see Zoë, muddied to the waist, struggle to her feet and give them a cheerful wave. 

Babs looked around at the burning room. "Suppose it can't be too bad, then." She lined herself up in the opening, wavered briefly, then, with a shout of "Geronimo!", jumped. A moment later, she called up: "OK, I'm down in one piece." Various sounds of struggling and muttered curses followed, then "Can you give me a hand, Zoë? I think I'm stuck." 

"OK, hang on," Zoë's voice replied. "No-one else jump until I say we're clear. I don't want anyone landing on us." 

"Cathy," Isobel said. "While we've got a moment, can I ask something?" 

Mrs Clifton, pale and trembling, managed to ask "What?" 

"Why _did_ you tip up the Alderman's lorry? You must have realised he could have been killed. Or wouldn't you have minded if he had been?" 

"I'm not sure what I was thinking. It was the first time I'd been at a demo." 

Isobel's jaw dropped. "But I thought you were one of their big cheeses." 

"Yes, but I'm on the planning and information gathering side. I don't go out in the field." 

"But this time, you had to be. And you couldn't resist joining in." 

"Yes — I'd got a headscarf and a mac in my bag. I put them on and then... I suppose I got carried away. And I'd do it again. Whatever happened, he'd have deserved it. You think Leila was the first girl he ruined, or got hooked on drugs?" 

"All clear," Zoë's voice called from below. 

"But if he's that bad why not report him to the police?" Isobel asked. 

"Do you need to ask?" Mrs Clifton asked bitterly. "He plays golf with the Chief Constable. And he's got some sort of hold over the Superintendent. If I had managed to get any evidence together it would just have disappeared quietly." 

"Hey, are you two all right?" Babs's voice shouted. 

"Coming." Isobel took Mrs Clifton by the arm. "You first." 

Mrs Clifton took her place on the ledge, then hastily stepped backward. "I can't." 

"If you don't jump you'll burn." Isobel looked over her shoulder; smoke was filling the room, and the flickering light of the fire was increasing. "And if you don't jump I'll push you myself. Now jump!" 

With a terrified shriek, Mrs Clifton launched herself from the window. Isobel stepped forward, in time to see her make an ungainly landing. Zoë and Babs hurried to her, and helped her up. 

"Gangway!" Isobel called, and jumped. 

⁂

"Looks like you need a hand," Babs said, more or less dragging Isobel to her feet. 

"Thanks." Isobel tried to scrape some of the ooze off her trousers, with little success. "They say mud's supposed to be good for the skin, don't they? At this rate we'll have the best skin in the world." 

Babs snorted. "Might as well have gone to Hull and done with it. This outfit's a write-off." She wiped a hand on one of the few clean parts of her shirt, then patted the top of her head. "Bugger, my crown's missing. Did anyone see where it went?" 

"Sorry, no," Zoë said. "I don't even know if you lost it out here or inside. And if it is somewhere in all this mud I'm not helping you dig for it." 

Babs cautiously bent down and poked in the mud at her feet, but quickly gave it up as a bad job. 

"Also, we need to get further away from here," Isobel added, nodding at the blazing brewery. "That could come down on top of us at any moment." 

They managed no more than a couple of steps before Mrs Clifton staggered and collapsed. 

"Sorry," she said. "I think I've done something to my leg. I suppose you could call it poetic justice." 

Isobel bent down and took her arm. "Here, lean on me," she said. "Zoë, you take her other arm." 

After a couple of attempts, Mrs Clifton managed to get to her feet. As fast as they could manage, which was still far too slowly for Isobel's peace of mind, the group made their way back to the gap in the railings. Zoë climbed up onto the street, followed by Babs. Between them, the two hauled Mrs Clifton up, and Isobel brought up the rear. As she gratefully clambered onto solid ground, the sound of sirens could be heard nearby. 

"Sounds like the fire brigade's here," Babs said. "Or the police." 

"Then we'd better make sure no-one goes in there," Zoë said. "Come on." 

On reaching the brewery gates, they found that both the fire brigade and the police were in attendance. In addition, behind a police cordon, most of the journalists and photographers who'd been covering the fashion show were eagerly watching the fire. At the sight of the dishevelled, mud-plastered group, one of whom was instantly recognisable as the recently-crowned Miss South Sussex, the photographic contingent swiftly turned their lenses in that direction, and Babs arrived at the gate to the accompaniment of as many flashbulbs as when she'd been crowned. 

"Excuse me?" Isobel asked one of the policemen. "We need to speak to whoever's in charge." 

"Oh, you will." A man in plain clothes, who'd been talking to one of the other constables, turned around, revealing the familiar features of Inspector Davies. "I'm arresting you four on suspicion of arson and criminal damage. Now, are you going to come quietly or do I have to use the handcuffs?" 

"But you don't understand!" Isobel protested. 

"You'll be given an opportunity to make a statement. Now come this way, all of you." 

"Public humiliation and arrest all in one go, for both of us," Zoë said, as they were led into the yard of the brewery. "I just hope you're satisfied."


	11. Resisting Arrest

As Zoë, Isobel, Babs and Mrs Clifton — the latter limping badly — were brought into one of the brewery's ramshackle outbuildings, it swiftly became clear that they would be facing something of a court of inquiry. Not only were Inspector Davies and several of his subordinates present, but a furious Alderman Rowlandson was glaring at them from behind a folding table. Mr Clifton was standing quietly to one side, paying the prisoners no particular attention until he recognised the latest arrival as his wife. 

"Cathy!" he gasped. "My God, what's happened to you?" 

"I'm afraid your wife's mixed up in all this, sir," the Inspector said. "If you'd rather not be present—" 

"No," Mrs Clifton said. "David, you need to stay for this." 

"Now," the Inspector began. "You're going to tell me what you were up to in that brewery." 

Isobel made a gesture of dismissal. "That's not important, and anyway I'm not answering any questions without a solicitor. You need to make sure no-one goes in there. There's a dangerous cyborg at large." 

"Oh, a cyborg? What's one of them when it's at home?" 

"This great big man made of metal," Babs broke in. "He'd rip you apart as soon as look at you." 

The policemen exchanged knowing glances. 

"Drunk," one of them said. "Best wait till she's sobered up. Anyone else got anything worth hearing?" 

"Yes," Zoë said, taking a couple of paces forward. "That building was being used, under the direct control of Alderman Rowlandson, for the manufacture and distribution of dangerous drugs." 

"Rubbish," the Alderman said. 

"It's not rubbish, it's true. You were in it for the money, weren't you?" She wheeled round. "Search his house. Go through his bank accounts. You'll find enough evidence." 

The Alderman looked as if, had he not been in a wheelchair, he'd have leapt up, overturned the table and tried to throttle her. "She's making it up," he snarled. 

"I saw the boxes ready to go out," Zoë said. "We all did. And Cathy and I saw the lab where they made it. And the body of Leila LeGrove. Didn't we, Cathy?" 

Mrs Clifton swallowed. 

"Yes," she said. "It's all true. But they won't believe you, Zoë." 

"What's this about a body?" the Inspector asked, turning over a fresh page. 

"Alderman Rowlandson got Leila LeGrove addicted to his drug," Zoë said. "When he was injured she was desperate for more supplies. She went to the brewery and found she could get in — that would be while Mr and Mrs Clifton were doing the stocktake." She began to pace to and fro. "She found her way to the lab and injected herself with concentrated Blaze. In minutes she'd have been paralysed. But she wouldn't have died straight away. No, she lay there all alone in the dark, not able to move in the slightest. Once the drug wore off she'd have known she was dying. For hours. Getting colder and hungrier and thirstier..." 

"This is a fairy-story!" the Alderman protested. 

"She died alone!" Zoë shouted over him. "Alone and terrified, lying in her own filth! Just because all she wanted to do was take part in your parade of bathing beauties!" She took a deep breath, and seemed to regain control of herself. "It could have been me or Babs up there. For all you cared, it could have been all of us." 

The Inspector cleared his throat. "And have you got any proof of this story?" 

Zoë sighed. "Once the fire's out — and assuming you survive the Cybermen — you'll find her bones. And you've got our statements." 

"Shouldn't have set light to the building, then, should you?" the Alderman said, a crowing note creeping into his voice. "If any of it was true, I mean. You'd have burned all the evidence." 

"We'll find enough evidence," Isobel said. 

"No, you won't, you'll all be going down for a good long stretch. Inspector, get rid of these hooligans." 

"I said they wouldn't believe us," Mrs Clifton said sadly, as the four prisoners were marched out of the shed. 

"But it's true!" Babs clenched her fists. "Why won't they believe us?" 

"Because we're women," Mrs Clifton said. "And until there are some serious changes to society, that's how things are going to stay. No man's going to believe us." 

"Maybe you've got a point," Babs said. 

"That's something I never thought I'd hear you say," Isobel said. "Next thing you'll be joining one of Mrs Clifton's feminist marches." 

"Say what?" 

"Oh, you didn't know. She's the feminists' secret weapon. Their woman on the inside. That's how they were able to pull off all those stunts." 

"You're having me on." 

"No, I'm not. Ask Zoë if you don't believe me. Zoë?" 

Zoë was looking back toward the burning building. "If they won't believe us, do you think they'll believe _that?_ " she asked. 

The others followed her pointing finger. 

The lobby at the end of the blazing building had just collapsed in a heap of rubble, exposing the main hall. Silhouetted against the flames was the familiar outline of the Cyberman. 

"Oh, no..." Isobel muttered, then raised her voice. "Keep away from it! It'll kill you!" 

"Why hasn't it melted?" Babs asked. 

"They're built to last. What we need's a bazooka." She shouted again at the oblivious firemen. "No! Don't go near it!" 

With a harsh electronic buzz, the silver giant's chest panel flared. A fireman in breathing apparatus, who'd seemingly been heading towards the Cyberman with rescue in his mind, collapsed to the ground. 

"Come on," the policeman accompanying them said. "Young ladies like you shouldn't be seeing this. And you've got to come along to the station." 

"This is going to be a massacre," Zoë said. 

"Maybe not." Isobel pointed at the sky. "I think the cavalry's on its way." 

"You what?" Babs asked. 

"It's a helicopter. With any luck that'll be UNIT." 

"Never heard of them." 

"You will, soon enough. Cathy, you wanted a man who'll believe you? Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart will. Tell him what you told me." 

"It'll still take them about ten minutes to get here," Zoë said, holding up her finger and thumb as if trying to pluck the helicopter from the air. "Depending where they can land. Who knows how many people the Cyberman will have killed by then?" 

For the second time, the sound of the Cyberman's weapon was audible over the fire. It was followed by shouting and police whistles; almost at once, a ragged group of firemen and policemen hurried out of the gates, and ducked for cover behind the wall. 

"Looks like someone's seen sense," Isobel said. 

"But David isn't with them," Mrs Clifton said. "He's still in there. Where is he?" Ignoring the protestations of the policeman guarding her, she limped across to the nearer group of men. "Have you seen David Clifton? What happened to him?" 

"Now, then," the policeman said, dragging her firmly back. "You stay where you're told, or I'll have to charge you with resisting arrest." 

Mrs Clifton narrowed her eyes. "Do what you like. I'm going in there to find David." 

"Don't," Zoë said. "All you'd do is die. You don't know what you're up against." 

"And you do?" 

"Yes. We do." Zoë glanced at Isobel, and exchanged a slight nod. "Want to see how it's done?" 

In one fluid move, she caught the policeman by the wrist and sent him staggering towards Isobel, who neatly tripped him into the gutter. Before he could recover his balance, the two had darted through the gateway into the brewery yard, and taken cover behind an abandoned police car. 

"So far, so good," Zoë said. "Now all we've got to deal with is the Cyberman." 

"Or Cybermen," Isobel said. "If you didn't spot that one when you were searching the building, who knows what else you missed? By the way, how come you didn't see him?" 

Zoë shrugged. "Maybe he was in one of the other buildings. Or maybe there's a cellar and we didn't find the trapdoor. Anyway, let's not get distracted. We need to take that Cyberman down." 

"Should be easy enough," Isobel said. "Live electric cable up his bum ought to do it." 

"We're nowhere near enough for that, and we don't have a live electric cable anyway. Or any other weapons." 

"The coppers might have a gun in the car," Isobel said. "But that wouldn't do any good." She risked a cautious look through the car windows. "He's quite close to that wall. Maybe we could get in the car and ram him." 

"He'd shoot you first." 

"What if I crouched down?" 

"I don't think the engine block would provide anything like enough shielding. You'd need about thirty centimetres of concrete..." Zoë's voice slowed down, as she looked past Isobel at something on the far side of the gate. "... Or several metres of water." 

Isobel turned her head to see what Zoë was looking at. Her eyes widened as she saw the gleaming fire tender. 

"Let's do it," she said. 

They zigzagged across the yard, weaving this way and that as nearby buildings and piles of debris exploded. Isobel reached the tender first and swung herself up into the driving seat; as she started the engine, Zoë scrambled aboard. 

"I'll guide you," she said. "Gently does it till we're lined up. Left hand down a bit..." 

The Cyberman's weapon fired, and the tender shuddered. 

"Down a bit more. Now! Ramming speed!" 

Isobel shoved the accelerator down, hard. Jerking and shuddering, with the scrape of metal on concrete, the tender roared backwards. The sound of the Cyberman's chest gun was continuous, now, and the shuddering of the vehicle was getting worse and worse. 

"How are we doing?" Isobel shouted. 

"We've lost the mirrors!" Zoë shouted back. "I can't—" 

There was a particularly violent detonation, a roar of tortured metal, and then a deeper, more ominous rumble from all around them. The tender juddered, and suddenly tipped backward, its front wheels spinning in the air. 

"Out!" Isobel shouted. She pulled the door handle, which failed to accomplish anything. "Zoë, get your door open, mine's jammed." 

"So's mine." Zoë braced herself against the cab, then kicked hard at the door. It fell away, and she jumped down to the ground. As Isobel followed, the cab lurched further into the air. 

"I think we got him," Zoë said. "Now let's find Mr Clifton." 

The two lost no time in making for the shed where they'd been interrogated. As she ran, Isobel couldn't resist looking back over her shoulder at the devastation she'd created. Between the effects of the Cyberman's gun and the collision with the building, there wasn't a lot left of the back half of the fire tender. Hitting the building had then brought the wall down on the remains of the vehicle, and it looked as if there had indeed been a cellar; the back of the tender had fallen into it, tipping what was left high into the air. 

"In here," Zoë said, calling Isobel's attention away from the wreckage. 

The interrogation room was more or less as they'd left it, though the only occupants were now Mr Clifton and Alderman Rowlandson. 

"What the blazes is going on out there?" the latter demanded. "And what are you young—" 

"Oh, put a sock in it," Isobel said. "We've just squashed a Cyberman flat, I haven't got time for a small-time local crook. David, we promised your wife we'd get you out of here. And Alderman... I suppose we'd better rescue you too, while we're at it." 

She took his wheelchair firmly by the handles. 

"You can't do that!" Mr Clifton protested. "You're under arrest!" 

"Logically, your conclusion doesn't follow from your premise," Zoë said, taking hold of the Alderman's wheelchair. "Now get a move on." 

They emerged into the yard. Isobel looked around, trying to get her bearings amid the dust and smoke. 

"The gates aren't too far," she said. "Just— Oh, that isn't _fair!_ Zoë, get the Alderman back in the shed, quick!" 

"What is it?" Zoë asked. "More cockroaches?" 

Isobel kept her eyes on the two all-too-familiar handle-headed figures as they marched through the swirling smoke. "Got it in one."


	12. Picnic

"What's up?" Mr Clifton asked, as Isobel dragged him back into their temporary refuge. "What were those things?" 

"Those cyborgs you don't believe in," Isobel said. "And we've run out of fire engines to squash them with." 

"Is that an extension lead?" Zoë dived for the corner, coming up with a coil of wire. "I need a screwdriver. Who's got a screwdriver?" 

Mr Clifton dug out a penknife and held it out to her. "Is this any good?" 

"You don't seriously believe these girls, do you?" the Alderman said. He was trying to maintain his usual self-confident tone, but the result was hardly convincing. 

"Oh, you're still pretending they aren't real?" Zoë snapped, as she unscrewed the socket at the end of the lead. "Why don't we push you out there and let you negotiate with them? You're the one they dealt with in the first place."

Isobel risked a quick look out of the door. "They're coming this way," she said. 

"And when they get here they're going to kill us all!" Zoë added. "There's no point in lying now. You might as well tell us the truth!" 

The Alderman made no answer. 

"I suppose the one you found said he was the only one," Zoë went on. She jumped to her feet and hurried across the room to stand beside the door, the stripped end of the cable in one hand. "Maybe he was, when you first found him and he got you interested in pushing Blaze. But you've been giving him materials since then. And people, too, I expect." 

"Cathy said Leila wasn't the only victim," Isobel put in. 

"And what do you think he was doing with what you gave him? Not just repairing his own damage or cooking up Blaze. He's been making more Cybermen." 

If the Alderman had intended to reply, he didn't get a chance. The door rattled, and was wrenched open. The silver giant standing in the doorway glared down at them with dark, empty eyes. 

Zoë brought the extension lead into contact with the Cyberman's posterior. There was a blue flash and a smell of burning; the Cyberman's arm swung out, and Zoë was suddenly lying supine on the floor a few feet away. 

"Cable up bottom not a good idea, Iz," she said groggily. "Mains voltage just annoys them. Must make note of that." 

Isobel would have run to her, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. Staring helplessly at the Cyberman, she raised her hands above her head. It didn't look like a cyborg that was in the mood to take prisoners. 

"We surrender," she began. 

The Cyberman's head exploded in a ball of flame, scattering the room with metal shards. Its body swayed, then toppled forwards into the room. A moment later, a khaki-clad figure stepped over the threshold, pistol in hand. 

"Miss Watkins," the Brigadier said. 

Isobel sagged with relief. "I know exactly what you're going to say next. This is no place for a girl like me." 

⁂

**Epilogue: Several Days Later**

Ideally, it would have been a sunny day, and the beach a smooth carpet of golden sand. This being Brinshore in an English summer, the best that could be hoped for was an absence of any serious rain; and the beach was shingle. 

Babs spread out a worn tartan rug, seated herself on the stones, and began to extract picnic materials from a carrier bag. Isobel and Zoë took their places around the rug, and followed suit. 

"Surprised you're still here," Babs said, pouring out tea from a Thermos. "I'd have thought the lez— _feminists_ would've run you out of town on a rail after you mucked up their pie fight." 

"Mrs Clifton convinced them I'd acted with higher intentions," Isobel said. "Exposing corruption in high places. Of course, I had to stand trial before their senior activists. They take justice very seriously in these parts." 

"So you know who all the leaders are, now?" 

Isobel shook her head. "I was blindfolded all the way through." 

Babs snorted. "Sounds like the Freemasons." 

"Well, their hearts are in the right place. Even if some of their methods are a bit bonkers. I don't think young Janet's ever going to speak to me again, though." Isobel took the proffered mug of tea, and sipped at it. "Are you still Miss South Sussex, or did they try to disqualify you?" 

"Do me a favour. There wasn't anyone left to do any disqualifying, what with Rowlandson under arrest. And the Cliftons, well, they'd got more important things to worry about. They were hardly going to do the whole contest again, were they?" She grinned triumphantly. "I've already got some offers. Even to go on TV. Advert for soap powder — and another one for Stick-Fast Glue." 

"So much for not doing anything tacky," Isobel said. 

Her _bon mot_ was met with nothing but groans. 

"Did they ever find that tiara?" Zoë asked. 

Babs laughed. "Nope. And I'm not going back in that estuary to look for it. The trouble I had getting the muck out of my fingernails last time... well, you'd know." 

"No, I suppose you can't be a beauty queen with dirty nails." 

"Now, now," Isobel said. "You should know better than to tell Babs what she can and can't do." 

"Talking of Freemasons," Babs said. "D'you think old Rowlandson will pull a few strings and get off?" 

Isobel shook her head. "The Brigadier's got his own police contacts. If anyone tries sweeping the evidence under the carpet he'll know about it. And if all else fails, there's always targeted assassination." 

Babs stared at her. "You wouldn't..." 

"No, I'm joking." 

"Mostly joking," Zoë added. 

"And what evidence, anyway?" Babs went on. "You burned it all, just like he said." 

"Not all," Zoë said. "Cathy and I picked up what we could while we were searching the building. And as Cathy said, Leila wasn't the only victim. We found a couple of others who were prepared to make statements. I had to go through stacks and stacks of hospital records on paper," she added. "Not even indexed electronically. Even the primitive computers of this century are capable of that." 

"What's she on about?" Babs asked. 

"She's from the future," Isobel said. "Where they eat silver foil and wear food pills — or something like that, anyway." 

"You're having me on!" 

"No, I'm serious. That's how she knew all about the Cybermen." 

"About those Cybermen," Babs said. "How did they get there in the first place?" 

"We're not sure," Zoë said. "Perhaps Rowlandson was mixed up with International Electromatics, or the Cybermen wanted a backup plan. Or maybe this one was just a stray survivor from the invasion fleet. Anyway, they set up their operation in the basement of the brewery and started manufacturing Blaze. Rowlandson provided the distribution network. 

"It all went according to plan until Mrs Clifton tipped Rowlandson out of his lorry. He got the Cliftons to keep an eye on the brewery while he was in hospital — passing it off as something to do with his building industry connections — but he completely forgot Leila. She was desperate for her next hit and... well, you know what happened after that." 

Babs grimaced. "Yeah. You said how she died. And I bet it'll give me a nightmare or two." 

"That was the worst-case scenario," Zoë said. "I don't actually know how bad it was for her. It all depends how strong the Blaze was and how much she took. At maximum concentration she'd probably have died quite quickly of heart failure or oxygen starvation." 

"Whatever it was, she didn't deserve it. And if you hadn't come looking for trouble, no-one would've known." 

Zoë nodded. "That's probable. Once Rowlandson could get about again, he'd have got his men to bury her somewhere on the brewery site and that would have been that. At least until the Cybermen had got strong enough that they didn't need him any more." 

There was a momentary lull in the conversation. 

"Anyone want an ice cream?" Babs asked, with determined cheerfulness. "There's a van over there." 

"It's hardly the weather for it," Zoë said. 

Isobel shook her head. "That's not the point. It's summer and we're on the beach, so we eat ice cream. Tutti Frutti for me, if they've got it." 

"Right you are. What about you, Zoë?" 

"Whatever's easiest, thanks." She winked at Babs. "As long as it isn't prawn." 

"OK. Won't be long." Babs jumped to her feet and hurried away. 

"Don't you have a favourite flavour?" Isobel asked. 

"Yes, nectarberry. But that's a genetically engineered fruit, so I know they won't have it." 

Isobel gave her a long look. "Do you ever feel homesick, Zoë?" 

"Now and again," Zoë said. "It would be nice to have proper dermagel again and I miss the Telepress forums." 

"You thought there might be time travel going on here. Suppose there was. What if you got a chance to go back home — well, forward, but you know what I mean. Would you?" 

"Only if I could take you with me," Zoë said. 

"That's so sweet of you. Look at you, you're blushing." 

"I'm not," Zoë said, but it was no more than a token protest. "Anyway, the question's purely academic." 

"Stuck here in primitive times with a load of barbarians and the wrong flavour of ice cream. It can't be easy for you." 

"On the other hand, I've ended up with you." Zoë blushed again. "I think, on the whole, things could have been a lot worse."


End file.
